


Nightfall in Winter

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Merlin, F/M, Hurt Merlin, Protective Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2789978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the fall of Blackheath castle, Arthur and Merlin must ride north with the army to fight a war in the heart of winter. But every battle has its price, and Arthur finds that the cost of this one may be more than he can bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightfall in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'Merlin' and its characters are not mine. No money is being made from this.

In another lifetime, Morgana might have been afraid of the Sarrum. Something in his eyes, perhaps, lent him an air of menace. When taken with his stout figure and balding head, though, the notorious king reminded her of nothing so much as a goblin stumbling out of the darkness of the faerie wood of Broceliande. She schooled her expression to keep from laughing. " _When faced with a ridiculous opponent, you must never laugh at him."_ That was the only good advice Uther had given her, and she followed it now. She kept her back straight and her chin up; a warming spell wrapped her up against the cold instead of a cloak. Every soldier had his eye on her as they walked by, the priestess and the king, and she knew she impressed them all- with beauty and bravado.

"Tell me again, Witch, why I shouldn't call my forces down upon you, or have one of my archers bury an arrow in your throat? I've been fighting witches and sorcerers since before you were born. I am not unprepared in this matter."

"Because witches are minor creatures, Sarrum, and you know better than to try to rain destruction down upon a high priestess of the goddess of war and strife. Besides," she looked toward the trees surrounding the camp and, as though on cue, a raucous choir of crows filled the trees with their noisome calls- the voice of the Morrigan. All around, Amatan soldiers shot nervous looks at the forest, their fingers making superstitious gestures to ward away sorcery. No need for them to know that Accolan, Ruadan, and a force of their men waited within the forest as well. "I'm not the only representative of the Old Ways here in the camp."

The Sarrum sniffed, but Morgana did not miss the hint of unease in his eyes. She suppressed a smile. "What is it that you're here for, then, Priestess? Speak quickly. I have a siege to run and an army to maintain. I have no time to indulge a woman's whims." A wide-eyed page swept open the door to the command tent, tripping over himself to both bow and not look like he was staring at Morgana as she passed.

She gave the boy no more thought than the Sarrum did, enjoying the warmth inside. Though a warming spell kept most of the cold away from her, it was still winter and they were still in the foothills of the mountains. Her spell-soaked dress might keep her from needing a cloak, but the effect was more dramatic than practical. A priestess might look like she was above such concerns as warmth and comfort, but it did not mean she actually was. She settled into the chair across the map-strewn table from him, straightening her sleeves and adjusting silken skirts. Much as he might disdain it, he would indulge this woman's whims. "We have a common desire, you and I," she said at last, "and a common enemy."

"I assume you mean your brother?" he said, gesturing for a servant to bring them wine. He leaned back in his chair, his compact frame radiating an aura of disinterest not reflected in his eyes.

"My younger brother," Morgana affirmed, "Who sits upon the throne that is mine by right."

"Your father never acknowledged you."

"He did at the end. And the truth of the matter is known throughout the Five Kingdoms. My claim to the throne of Camelot is not the issue here. You have a fortress you want to conquer, I have a throne to take back, and there is one man who stands in the way of our achieving our goals. Either one of us could defeat Arthur on our own, but it would a long, costly process." The servant set a cup of spiced wine in front of her, redolent with the scent of ginger and cinnamon. Rare spices. Apparently, the Sarrum wanted to impress her. ' _Or it's laced with poison, and the spices are meant to cover it_.' She pretended to sip the wine.

"What do you intend, then?" The Sarrum took a long drink of his own wine, holding the jeweled cup loosely in his hands.

"An alliance. Separately, it could take months, perhaps even years for us to defeat Arthur, but if we were to unite, we could have our respective desires in hand well before the festival of Imbolc."

He raised an eyebrow. "Taking Blackheath is not my end goal. Surely you know that. Camelot is a rich land. You are not the only one with your eye on that throne." He sipped at his wine again, but Morgana saw the calculations behind his eyes. He might scoff outwardly, but he was considering it.

She graced him with a frosty smile. "You're not the only one with an army behind you, Sarrum. I have my own forces at Tintagel, not to mention the armies of Rheged. King Urien is hardly opposed to having a strong ally across the border, and as I am marrying into the royal household, they cannot deny me. Call it a temporary truce, if you will. A cessation of hostilities until Arthur Pendragon meets his end. Once you have Blackheath and I have my throne, we can go back to being enemies. See whose army is stronger. Or whose gods are stronger." Morgana stared back at him, daring him to dismiss the notion outright. He faced a protracted winter siege that would cost him untold amounts of gold and lives. Perhaps he was willing to spend both, but the man was known for choosing expediency.

"What makes you so certain that your plan will have Arthur dead by mid-winter?" He set the cup down and folded his hands in front of him. She had his full attention.

"If you take Blackheath, Arthur will march north with his full army, despite the season. The valley beyond the fortress opens up into open land- the whole of Camelot lies open you at that point, and with the castle at your back and your own men occupying it, you have a strong base from which to attack the lowlands. Arthur will never stand for that," Morgana said.

"Then I will be facing another winter siege. From a more tenable position, of course, but a siege all the same. And while I hate to do so, I have to admit that Arthur is as skilled a tactician as his father was. How do you propose to deal with the armies, or do you intend to play no real role in this little. . . adventure?" The Sarrum's brow lowered.

 _"I have him._ " She smiled again. “Arthur may have Uther's gift of good tactics, but he also has his father's temper. Make him angry, and there is no telling what he might do. Except, that is, for losing his grasp on reason. Make Arthur angry, and he'll lose all sense. Throw his troops into confusion, and you'll have your victory."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"You'll take prisoners along with the fortress. I am assured your inquisitors are quite skilled and that they enjoy their work. They'll question their prisoners extensively, and when they're done," Morgana shrugged and gestured to a polearm resting against a weapon rack, "Decorate Blackheath's southern valley with heads and spikes. You'll have plenty of time. If you feel that's not quite enough, there is a second part of this plan. Have you heard of the sorcerer, Merlin, who's always at Arthur's side?"

"I've heard of him," the Sarrum rumbled, "Men sometimes keep strange pets. Arthur would do better to have a dog at his side, but no matter. What do you intend?"

Morgana let the veiled insult roll off her back. "It's true that Arthur is strangely fond of him, despite a lifetime of loathing sorcerers. It's also true that Merlin is quite powerful. And yet, I have the means to deprive him of that power, to make him no stronger than any common man. Catch the dog in a trap, take him from his master, and give him to your inquisitors. That will make Arthur angry enough, though I'm sure you can find other means of using the servant against the master."

"Indeed." He leaned forward, perhaps an inch or two, but Morgana knew she had him.

"You seem quite sure of this plan, Priestess."

"I have the gift of foresight, Sarrum, and I have seen these events. Fire and ash, blood on the snow, and a fallen crown. I have seen how I will trap Merlin, and I have seen what it will to do Arthur. Your victory is my victory, and if you fail, then we both fail. We can go back to hating each other when this is over. But right now, at this moment, we are stronger together."

The Sarrum stared back at her for a time, testing her resolve in the face of his silence. She refused to give an inch, reflecting the same intensity he gave her. "Very well, then. It is a strange alliance, Morgana Pendragon, but in this season, we are allies." The decision made, he relaxed back into his chair. "Now. I assume you have a plan to get us through the gates of Blackheath?"

"I do," she said. "With fire and with blood."

 

* * *

 

"Merlin, what are you doing?"

The warlock glanced up from his book to find Arthur watching him. He stood with his back to the fire, its light forming a halo around him like he was some avenging spirit in another one of his visions. He had been having more of them lately, slipping into his dreams and as impenetrable as ever. _'So help me if they're appearing while I'm awake now.'_

Merlin blinked the pseudo-vision away and glanced back at the drying ink on the page. "I'm writing," he answered, dipping the reed pen in the inkpot and tapping it against the edge to keep it from dripping.

"I can see that," Arthur rolled his eyes and sat down across from Merlin, his posture exuding boredom and a case of too much energy and not enough to do. Rain, snow, and mud kept the King inside and away from his favorite pursuits- riding, hunting, and swordplay. With nothing to do but pace about indoors and complain about it, he was starting to test even Merlin's nearly endless store of patience. "What are you writing about?"

"I'm writing about places you've never been to," he said, putting pen to page again to finish the sentence he had stopped in the middle of. If only Arthur had something of the scholar's mentality, he might drive some of that restlessness into his studies and stop pestering his servant. Perhaps it was too much too hope for, though. If they were night and day, then they were scholar and warrior, too, with neither willing to take up the other's tasks.

"And you've been to these places?" Arthur drummed his fingers on the table.

"No."

"Then how can you be writing about them?"

"You wouldn't understand," Merlin said, regretting the words when he saw the hurt flash through Arthur's eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I don't understand it, either. In the Crystal Cave, I saw things. Things that happened to other people a long time ago, and now that I've had time to think on it, I can't get them out of my head. I thought that, maybe if I wrote it down, I could put it all to rest."

"You're very strange," Arthur rolled to his feet and stalked across the room to look out the window.

"I know. When I'm done with this, I'm going to update the maps in the library, so at least you'll get some benefit from it." Merlin kept writing for a few more sentences, and then looked up when the silence grew ominous. He found Arthur staring out the window, his hands twitching the edge of the curtains back and forth. "Is there a reason I'm here, or did you just want an audience for your pacing?"

"I hate winter. It's cold and gray, and everyone is cooped up, getting on each other's nerves. There's nothing to do for the kingdom's business except resolve arguments that happen because everyone's stuck indoors."He flicked the curtains shut, closing out the light Merlin needed to keep writing, and wandered back to the fire. "Is there anyone who likes winter?"

"I don't mind it so much anymore. At least it's quiet." _'And no one's tried to kill me lately,'_ he added mentally. He wiped the pen clean and re-corked the inkpot. There was no sense in trying to keep writing when Arthur was in a fidgety mood. He would be constantly interrupted if he tried.

"That's where you and I differ, Merlin. I'm a man of action. I need something to do. All this. . . this sitting is going to drive me insane." The King immediately set about not sitting, pacing aimlessly around the room while Merlin stowed his book and writing materials in his bag.

"If you're looking for something to do, I'm sure any of the other servants would be happy for the help. The list of chores is endless. You'd have plenty of work to keep you occupied until spring at least. Probably beyond that. No," Merlin paused to consider the workload, "Definitely beyond that. There's enough work to keep you busy until you're an old-"

"Enough of that," Arthur cut him short, "If you think you're going to foist your work off on me, then you're more on an idiot than I thought."

"Given that you haven't figured out what I'm supposed to be doing for you these days, foisting it off on anyone is going to be difficult. I've already seen to your armor. It's been polished and oiled and all the buckles and straps replaced with new ones. You have men far more qualified than I am to keep the stables and kennels running, and you prefer George's laundry-doing abilities to mine, which is fine with me." Merlin rested his elbows on the table and watched Arthur pace from the hearth to the window and back again.

"Well, then, if you don't have any chores to do, what are you doing here?"

It was Merlin's turn to roll his eyes. "I don't know! You summoned me like you had some grand plan and then gave me nothing to do. I was actually busy when you sent for me." It was true; between the arthritic joints that slowed him down every winter and a lingering cold, Gaius was moving slower than normal. While many were still skittish around Merlin- or outright refused to be treated if he was present- they did not seem to mind that he blended the potions that made them feel better. So Gaius saw to their illnesses while Merlin made the medications, and Blaise's boys earned an extra few coins by delivering the potions to the correct people out in the city. The system worked smoothly, and gave all the players what they needed- more rest for Gaius, more time for Merlin's studies, and if Blaise begrudged the boys their well-earned sweets, he said nothing of it.

"Well, I-" Arthur's brow furrowed with confusion, his mouth still hanging open. He must have realized that Merlin was right. He snapped his mouth shut and stalked toward the window, keeping his back to the warlock to spare himself the embarrassment of being wrong.

"You summoned me, and you haven't told me to go away, so you're just going to have to deal with me until you get tired of dealing with me. We could sit and talk. I know plenty of servants' gossip."

"Merlin-"

"Or I could beat you at cards again. You can't say I'm not good at that." Merlin did his best to hold back his smirk, but was not quite successful.

"You cheated," Arthur grumbled.

"I did not. I'm just better at mathematics than you are. If you want to play someone at your level, I could go get Aimery. I know he's only ten, but he's quite clever," Merlin grinned.

Arthur hadn’t turned, but he could tell by the set of his shoulders that the King was trying- and failing- to be indignant. "That's enough out of you. I suppose if Gaius is keeping you so busy, you should get back to it."

"It'll keep," Merlin said. He had not missed the tone in Arthur's voice. He was bored, lonely, and refusing to admit either one. "Can't have you daydreaming out the window all day like some lovelorn girl. What will people say?"

"I think they'd say- hang on, what's this?" He leaned closer to the window, nearly touching his nose to it. His breath fogged the pane.

"I doubt that's what they'd say," Merlin tried to keep the banter moving, but Arthur was too intent on whatever what happening in the courtyard below to notice. "What is it?" he crossed to the window and peered over Arthur's shoulder.

Outside, three mud-spattered and hooded men wearily climbed out of their saddles. Their horses were nearly blown, their heads down, and heaving flanks steaming in the cold air. A trio of red-cloaked knights- Leon among them- hurried to meet the riders, calling for servants to see to the horses. The leader yanked his hood back and stepped up to meet Leon. Perhaps a few years older than Arthur, he was weary and unshaven, his dark blond hair tangled and as mud-spattered as the rest of him.

Arthur muttered a curse. "That's Kay."

"Ector's son?"

"Yes." Arthur spun away from the window and reached for his long coat. "He and Ector are charged with the defense of Blackheath. If Kay's here, it doesn't bode well for the northern defenses." He rushed out of the room, leaving Merlin to hurry after lest he be left behind.

They met Kay and his men just inside the main doors, walking into a flurry of activity as a dozen men- knights and servants- bustled about and tried to do their duties while keeping out of each others' ways. Leon was calling for mulled wine for the men and for the servants to ready rooms for them, while others peeled the travelers' sodden cloaks. Kay and his men did their best not to fall over or drip too profusely on the stone floor. "Send for the King!" someone called.

"There's no need. I'm already here," Arthur strode into the middle of the chaos, his face calm, his voice strong and steady. The effect was immediate. With their King's arrival, the chaos lessened and tired eyes brightened, as though Arthur were a well of strength whose mere presence fed those around him. "What is it, Kay? What's happened?"

"Sire." Kay made a weary bow. Exhaustion and grief were etched in his face. "The Sarrum's forces caught in a surprise attack during a blizzard. We had no way of knowing they were coming. The snow was so thick you could hardly see three paces in front of you," he shook his head and gratefully accepted the wine Leon pressed into his hands. He downed half of it in one pull. "It shouldn't have been possible, but there they were- at the northern gate, and it all in flames. Those doors held Amata back for a century and more, but they burned to the ground as if they were made of dry tinder. After that, the enemy poured in like water, cutting us down right and left. We rallied, held them back to destroy the foodstuffs, but there was no holding them back in the end. Ector ordered a retreat, and he and a squadron brought the Amatans to a chokepoint, fought them off long enough that we could get out. I saw him fall-" Kay's voice nearly broke.

He finished the wine and cleared his throat. "My father is dead, and Blackheath has fallen."

* * *

They reconvened in the council chamber some time later, allowing Kay enough time to scrape away the mud from the road and inform his mother of her husband's death. Lady Drusilla sat beside him now. Her eyes were red, but dry. She leaned toward Kay without touching him, his hand covering her smaller one. Arthur spoke quietly to her- giving her his condolences, no doubt. Merlin could not hear what he said from his side of the table as he spread the maps out- one of Blackheath and its surroundings and another of the entire northern border. One with what they knew of Amata.

He sighed, smoothing the maps and weighing them down with polished stones inlaid with the golden dragon of Camelot. _"The moment we've been dreading for months. Why in winter? No one fights in winter."_ He brushed away his unease and pulled Arthur's chair out, taking three steps back and doing his best to blend into the shadows without actually disappearing into them.

Arthur sat, turning the signet ring round and round on his finger as he frowned at the maps. "I don't think I have to tell any of you what a disaster it is that Blackheath has fallen. I lay no blame on you or your father, Sir Kay," he held a placating hand toward the knight. He shook his head, "Lord Kay," he corrected, "You all fought bravely. You couldn't have foreseen the Sarrum's attack, not during such a storm. Only a madman attacks in a storm. But the fact remains- Blackheath has fallen to Amata. Unless we want to face an onslaught of enemy troops, we must take the army north and take the fortress back." He rapped his fist against the table for emphasis. The sound echoed through the chamber, interrupted only by the quiet rattle of sleet against the windows.

"But, Sire," a hesitant voice spoke up, "What of our food stores and supplies for the winter? If the army takes its share north, what will happen to the people if there is some other disaster? Surely the snows will keep the Sarrum at bay until spring, when our resources are not stretched so thin." It was Hugh Alston, Merlin noted, the head of the Merchants Guild and spokesman for the guilds at large. Of course his thoughts would veer toward resources and their allocation. It was why Arthur had chosen the man for the Privy Council. But Alston had no head for wartime tactics.

"I appreciate your concerns, Master Alston, but the Sarrum will not be so courteous as to wait until spring to press his advantage. If he is allowed to spread into Camelot, there will be no one and nothing left in the north come spring." Arthur stood abruptly, his fingers finding the fallen castle on the map before him. "Here is Blackheath. It spans a narrow gap in the foothills of the mountains. South of it," he traced a circle around a wide, nearly blank area, "there is a low rise south of the castle before the land opens up onto the plains. Much of our finest farmland is there, but without the natural defenses that the mountains provide, it's hard to defend. If we fail to take Blackheath back, we'll find ourselves struggling to keep Camelot together. Unless any of you can see away around it." Arthur gave the council members a hard look, "We must take the army north as soon as possible."

"But how quickly could we prepare for this? Surely the Amatan troops are already prepared to march- they've been fighting at Blackheath these past months, after all. What's to stop them from setting out from the border before we can even begin a march north?" This from Geoffrey of Monmouth.

"I've been preparing for this possibility since my coronation. We've increased training for the men, and we've been stockpiling weapons, armor and other supplies. I have the quartermaster's assurance that we can be ready to march within a week, perhaps a week and a half at most. With a full army, it's a nine-day march to Amata. Eight if the weather is in our favor. We could arrive at Blackheath in just over a fortnight. If the Sarrum moves out before that, we will meet him in the fields, with the people of Camelot to support us." Arthur's poise and the confidence in his voice bolstered the council's spirits as much as his words did. Merlin watched their backs straighten and a certain light return to their eyes as the talk turned to tactics and they began to believe that Camelot might survive this dark turn of fortune after all. In such times, Arthur seemed to possess hope enough for a thousand men to draw from, and all one needed to do was be near him to drink from that well.

Perhaps in such moments, the King felt the brush of Fate the way Merlin did, instinctively letting it sing through him without being aware of it. Or maybe that was just the way Arthur was. One of the many reasons men would follow him to hell and back again. He suppressed a smile and let his eyes drift shut. Tactics were not his strong suit, and the discussion was likely to run on for a while- time enough for him to use his own skills. He did not doubt the loyalty of anyone in the room, but spies could have other eyes than men's. The Sarrum might not employ sorcery, but there was no need for Morgana to discover their plans.

Without moving from his place in the shadows, Merlin swept through the room, searching for the Goddess's creatures that might spy, or scrying spells he would have to sweep away like so many cobwebs. There were none. Though he stretched himself to the limit of where he could go while standing in place, there were neither unfriendly spells nor unfriendly eyes. The gloom-ridden part of his mind refused to believe that it was a good thing. He had seen too many dark portents to be cheerful about much these days, but for now, things were as they should be. "Not quite," he corrected himself. Gaius was still sick and unable to attend the council. And Camelot was on the verge of war.

"Merlin?" The hint of irritation in Arthur's voice brought him back to the council meeting. "Quit dozing off and pay attention."

"Sorry, what?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, perhaps seeing that Merlin had not been daydreaming. "There's a map we need that Geoffrey didn't have time to find before this meeting began. It details the locations of Blackheath's siege tunnels. I know it's in the library somewhere- my father made me study it before I left to stay with Ector years ago. Given that you've had your nose in one book or map or another lately, I'm sure you'll be able to find it."

"I'm sure I'll find a way," Merlin kept his voice as innocent as possible. "Do you need anything else?"

Arthur waved him on. "If you come across something that seems important, bring it with you. Otherwise, just the map. Blackheath's siege tunnels, mind you. Whatever bit of random trivia you uncover can wait."

"Of course," Merlin grinned as he slipped out the back way.

He did not run to the library. That would have been undignified. But he made it there quickly, basking in the soft light and the dusty sweet scent of old books and scrolls as he dug around in Geoffrey's desk for the key to the map room. He took his time in walking there, fingertips tracing the spines of the ancient volumes and writing eloquent lines in the dust on the scroll cases. After Gaius's chambers, the library had come to feel like home more than any other place in the castle.

He wanted to savor this moment. If Arthur was going north, it meant Merlin was going north, too, and it might be a long time before he would see the library again. "Maybe one day, my own little book will end up in here. I wonder who might read it?" He chuckled as he unlocked the door, summoning a light instead of bringing a candle or lantern in. "I am too young to be maudlin about things I haven't done yet."

Finding the map was the work of a few minutes. He fixed the idea of it- Blackheath and its siege tunnels- in his mind, and then slowly turned in a circle in the middle of the room, one finger pointing ahead like a compass needle until a chime seemed to ring in his head. From there, it was a matter of leafing through the delicate parchments until he found the right one. _"Probably not the way Arthur intended for me to find it, but I doubt he'd complain much._ " As much as he still cringed- however slightly- when Merlin used some bit of magic around him, the King never said anything about it. And wouldn't, so long as Merlin did not stray outside the boundaries Arthur had laid out. It had not taken much for the warlock to agree to them. After a lifetime lived in hiding, even the smallest bit of freedom meant everything.

With a last look back at the rows of maps and book-laden shelves, he locked up behind himself and extinguished the light before heading back to the council chamber, slipping back the way he had left. The debate had quieted, and some sense told him to wait, not to go in quite yet. It did not take long to figure out why.

". . . but he's a sorcerer, is he not? Sorcery is still illegal, sire, even if you haven't been enforcing your father's law." It was Kay.

Merlin sank back from the doorway before anyone spotted him. He did not need to be sitting at the table to hear a few voices murmuring in agreement. _"Am I the most talked-about servant in Camelot, then?_ "

"I haven't been enforcing the law because I don't feel that it's a just law, Kay. Not anymore. We don't punish murderers as harshly as a man lighting a cooking fire with a bit of magic." There was a pause. Merlin imagined the two staring each other down, Arthur and the knight. It was a contest Arthur would win. "Besides. I laid down a set of ground rules which Merlin promised to abide by regarding his magic. Thus far, he has followed those rules to the letter. Even after he was attacked without provocation in the market, he refused to strike back. That tells me everything I need to know."

"But, sire-"

"Kay," Arthur cut the knight off, "Do you trust me?"

"I- Yes, sire. Of course I do.

"And I trust Merlin. Is that good enough for you?"

Another pause. Then, "Yes, sire." Kay's tone was not begrudging or intended to agree for the sake of agreement. There was a ring of truth in the knight's words. He meant them. Arthur trusted Merlin, and it was good enough for Kay.

Merlin sagged against the wall, grateful tears welling in his eyes- not only for Kay's acceptance, but also for Arthur's declaring his trust in front of the entire council. It wasn't a necessary thing- he already knew Arthur had faith in him, but now everyone else knew it, too.

He dried his eyes and put a lid on his rising spirits, letting the conversation in the chamber drift back to matters of war before stepping back into the room. No one commented on his appearance, and if anyone noticed the new lightness in his step, they never spoke of it.

* * *

The days passed too quickly. The quartermaster's estimate had been accurate, and the army was ready to march within eight days of Kay's arrival. With Merlin's assurances that the weather would be clear for at least the next few days, fortune seemed to be working in their favor. But then, Arthur did not believe in the forces of fate or fortune, and so the clawing worry in his gut only increased as the days went on. Other times, he would have looked to Merlin for reassurance, but the sorcerer had worries of his own. Gaius's health had taken a turn for the worst, leaving the sorcerer to spend three days tending the physician while provisioning himself and Arthur for their ride north, as well as helping Blaise and the other healers prepare medical supplies. All this made Guinevere fret over both of them until she was set on drugging Merlin to get him to rest.

Arthur smiled at the memory of the outcome of that decision. Guinevere had gone upstairs to do the deed, only to find Gaius up and making tea for himself. Merlin had fallen asleep at the table, his nose buried in a book. His owl perched on his back, as though the little puffball of feathers and big eyes could keep the sorcerer in place until he had enough rest.

Whether the owl had kept Merlin in his place or not, he looked better than he had in days, his eyes showing only slightly more strain than everyone else's. When Arthur asked him what- besides Gaius's health- was bothering him, Merlin had only shrugged. _"Visions,"_ he had said.

Visions. Uncertain ones, Arthur was assured, omens that hinted at the future without revealing anything useful. _"What good are they, if they tell you nothing?"_ he had asked.

_"They're not. I wish I didn't have them."_

The curt reply was Merlin's final word on the matter, and Arthur did not press for once. If Merlin had something to add, then he would add it. The King had enough to worry about without adding Merlin's fears to the mix.

The courtyard was cold and noisy. The bells rang, alerting the city that the army was about to ride out, and that Camelot's soldiers had best be ready to go or be left behind. Arthur pulled his new gloves on, reveling in the warmth the fine wool lining provided. Guinevere had given them to him the day before, shyly showing him the pale blue thread she had sewn into them. His lady's favor. Their relationship was an open secret, and yet it would have been uncouth for him to openly wear her favor to war. So she had hidden it, making it their secret. He smiled and looked up, finding her looking back at him from a window, standing next to Gaius. His smile widened into a grin, and he couldn't help but stare at her, framed as she was by soft torchlight and windowpanes.

Merlin followed his gaze and waved up at them. From their window, Guinevere and Gaius could only see his smile, but Arthur saw the worry in his eyes. "What is it now?" he asked.

"I don't know," Merlin replied. His horse, Altair, nudged him in the chest, demanding the treat it knew the sorcerer had. He smiled faintly, giving the horse the other half of the apple he'd brought. "I just have this feeling like I'm not going to see him again."

"Chin up, Merlin," Arthur said, swatting at Merlin's head before climbing into the saddle, "You're the one who told me these visions and whatnot told you nothing useful."

"Yes," he said. He did not sound convinced, but climbed into his own saddle all the same, throwing one last look up to the window.

With the King mounted and ready to ride, the calls to move out spread through the ranks. The city filled with the sounds of hooves clattering against paving stones, the jangling of armor, and the noise of thousands of voices calling out their farewells and good wishes. If it had been spring or summer, the women would have showered the men with flowers, hoping that some knight would catch it and a girl's eye and carry the favor off to war with him. The hope was always there that it would bring him good luck. Perhaps he would come home again, find the girl who threw the flower, and marry her. It was always the hope. This time, though, there were no flowers to throw. At least the snowballs were few, and only tossed by giggling children.

The days that followed were cold and clear. Snow flurries troubled them by night, but the winter sun chased them away in the morning, leaving a pale, empty sky. Only the wind troubled them then, cutting through cloaks and leaving the men's beards crusted with ice. The forest roads were clear of snow, allowing them to make good time until they reached the open plains, where windblown snow had drifted over the road. They lost half a day's march waiting for ploughmen to cut through the icy crust until the largest horses could go through, trampling the snow down until the rest of the army could march on. The closest villages were glad of the delay, Arthur was sure. It was rare that so many men passed by them in the winter, bringing their coin and custom with them.

Two days' ride from Blackheath found them camped in a series of fallow fields on a rise above an ice-covered river. With the men settled in their tents for the night- though few slept, if the sounds of bawdy tavern songs and gambling were any sign- Arthur finally relaxed. As much as a King could on the road to war. Lucan and his scouts had ridden ahead and sent their reports back. The Sarrum had not stirred from Blackheath. He chose to reinforce the walls instead and rebuild the northern gates that had burned in his final assault. And, Arthur was dismayed to learn, he had collapsed the siege tunnels leading in and out of the fortress.

After enough sighs over the reports Merlin gathered them up, sorting the unread ones from the ones the King had already seen and put them away in their oilskin pouch. He had set a cup of steaming tea in front of Arthur then- something smelling of mint and meant to help him sleep, no doubt. Merlin had met his King's glare with a raised eyebrow and a stubborn set of his shoulders that would have made a mule proud. Arthur finally relented, drinking the tea down, letting Merlin pack him off to bed and relight the brazier in his makeshift chamber with a gesture and a flash of gold in his eyes. He drifted off to sleep to the sound of Merlin's pen scratching against parchment.

* * *

Arthur woke sometime later with the light of false dawn glinting on the eastern horizon. The brazier had gone out again. The tent had grown cold and dark. He rose, pulling a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the chill and slipped into the other side of the tent to find something to re-light the little fire. After shuffling around for a few minutes and finding nothing, he sighed and gave up. "Merlin?" he said, glancing toward the pallet where the sorcerer slept. It was empty. He glanced around, looking for the other man as though Merlin had been waiting in the shadows and was preparing to jump out and startle him. "Probably out stargazing again," Arthur muttered. Merlin had been threatening to drag him out one of these nights and teach him about the stars, but the King always had something better to do. Like sleep.

He poked around again for flint and steel or something else that would light a fire, finally finding it tucked away in a pack. Starting the fire was harder than he remembered. His own demand for equality aside, it was always Merlin who had started the campfires. Faced with his own inability to do so, he was starting to wonder if Merlin had the knack for building fires, or if he just been using his magic the whole time. Neither answer would have surprised him.

He was about to give up and go back to his cold bed when Merlin slipped in, letting a breath of icy wind in with him. His eyes were shadowed and distant as shook the snow from his boots and pulled his cloak off. He did not notice Arthur watching. "Where have you been?" he said sharply, his irritation with the flint and steel leaking into his voice more than he wanted it to.

Merlin looked up, startled. His eyes widened when he saw the King standing there. Whatever dark thoughts had been in his head, they had surely fled by now. "Uh. . . Out," he stuttered.

"I can see that," Arthur said, sighing. "I'm not angry at you, Merlin. It's just that I woke up and the fires had gone out, and. . . " he shrugged and tossed the flint and steel onto the table.

Merlin's lips quirked up in a smile he could not quite hide. "The King of Camelot can't light a fire?"

"That," Arthur squared his shoulders and pulled the blanket tighter around himself, "is what I have servants for."

"Do you want me to light a fire so you can be all warm and toasty, then?" Merlin said, his teasing tone assuring Arthur that his sharp words were forgiven.

He opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again. Any answer except 'no' would make him sound like a whiny child, such was the way Merlin had asked. But it was cold, and he wanted to be warm again. "Yes," he said with as much dignity as he could muster while wrapped in a blanket that dragged along the ground. "Where did you go, anyway?" he asked again to change the subject.

Merlin flicked his fingers, and tongues of bright flame leapt up in the brazier. "I met with Iseldir. He's a Druid. I think I've mentioned him before." He rubbed his eyes and bit back a yawn.

"Yes," Arthur said. He settled into a chair at the table and gestured for Merlin to take the one opposite him. If this was like any of the sorcerer's other explanations, he was in for a long story. "You told me a little bit about him after that incident with the Druid girl who was spying for Morgana. I thought you said he and his people went to Nemeth in the winter."

"They usually do, and most of his tribe has. He's escorting a few of the young women to Helva. They're going to be studying with the healers there. I thought they would have made it there weeks ago, but he saw some sort of portent that made him wait."

"Is this anything like the. . . visions you've been having?" Arthur asked. He shifted nervously as the conversation drifted into foreign waters.

Merlin didn't notice. "Yes," he said, raking a hand through his hair, making bits of it stick out at odd angles. "And no. I don't know." He slumped in the chair, his eyes on the little fire. "Both of us have the feeling that something bad is going to happen, but neither of us can tell what for sure. I know we're going to war, and that's a terrible thing by itself, but this- whatever it is that we're both seeing, it's different, somehow." Merlin's eyes unfocused, as though he were trying to divine some un-seeable answer from the flames.

"Fire and snow and ash, darkness, and the wind the trees," he said distantly.

"And you don’t know what it means?"

"No. I've been seeing the same thing for months, and I have no idea what it means." Merlin buried his face in his hands, his thumbs rubbing slow circles against his temples as though trying to brush the visions away. Or the headache that was building. Much as Merlin tried to hide it, Arthur saw the signs. They had been happening more often of late, and he wondered if the premonitions had something to do with it. Not that Merlin would admit to the pain. He was far too inclined to deny his own hurts.

"Have you slept at all tonight?" Arthur asked softly.

Merlin shook his head. "No. I've been too busy worrying about everything," he admitted. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"Go to bed, then. Dawn's not that far off, but some sleep is better than none. And don't bother getting up just because I am. I'll have Elyan or Percival pack things up. Maybe Gwaine," Arthur smirked, "A little work would be good for him."

"If you have Gwaine do it, then no one in the entire camp will be able to sleep."

"True. I could have the rest of them do it. Then they could take the Mickey out of him for not helping. Go on, then," he waved Merlin off. "I think I can get myself back to bed. I'm not completely useless."

"Not completely," Merlin grinned and rolled out of the chair, disappearing into the shadows where his bed was before Arthur could find something to lob at his head. There was a faint thunk as he put his boots away and the muffled rustling of blankets, then quiet. Merlin must have been dead on his feet to fall asleep so quickly

Arthur leaned back and stared up into the darkness to clear his mind of his own fears- a task he rarely accomplished. Merlin only added to it. Much as he tried to brush the sorcerer's premonitions off as odd maunderings, he couldn't quite do it. Even before he knew about Merlin's magic, he'd been aware that the funny feelings the other man had often came true. After enough times, even a prince could learn to pay attention, even if he pretended not to. And now this. He sighed. Whatever this was, it was going to drive him mad if he let it, so he decided not to allow it. With a last glance back to where Merlin slept, Arthur took himself off to bed and did his best to sleep through the remainder of the uneasy night.

 

* * *

_"He's trying to make you angry, Arthur. Don't let him win."_ He tried to keep Merlin's advice in mind. It wasn't easy. Not with this list of names in front of him. Three dozen names belonging to three dozen men he had failed.

They had ridden into Blackheath's southern valley two days earlier, having collected the remainder of Kay's forces from the villages they had retreated to. They passed a burned out temple along the way- Arthur had not missed Merlin's mournful gaze as they rode by it. The final mile was a slow one as they picked their way along the icy road down the ridge before spreading out into the open land that lay before the castle gates.

Arthur had forgotten how forbidding Blackheath Castle was. Thirty feet of leaden gray stone spanned the half-mile valley marking the boundary between Camelot and Amata, butting up against cliff walls to the west, and overhanging an icy lagoon to the east. The great watchtowers were as imposing as they had been when he was a boy, and the lines of arrow slots just as ominous. Under the gray winter sky, it was hard to imagine that once, he and Kay had been happy there, running through the courtyards, racing each other up the endless stairs, and pretending to man the crenellated walls like they soldiers they would grow up to be.

As he guided Canrith toward the massive doors, Arthur had taken the standard of Camelot from its bearer, his eyes fixed on an unmoving figure on the wall. Even from that distance, Arthur recognized the Sarrum. He rode within bowshot of the gates and planted the scarlet and gold banner firmly in the frozen soil, the heavy cloth unfurling in the winter wind. It made for quite a spectacle, he knew- a young king on a white charger, his armor shining, while the standard of his land snapped brightly beside him. Then he had turned Canrith, giving them his back as he returned to his own lines. Two messages in one action. Here I am- destroy me if you can. I have no fear of you.

Amata's answer had been left in advance.

Thirty-six heads on spikes with the bodies laid out beneath them, each wrapped in the vivid red cloaks of the Knights of Camelot. Lord Ector was chief among them. The youngest had been little more than a boy with a patchy attempt at a beard on his chin. He would never have to chance to let it fill out now, just as they would never see Ector's broad grin again. It would be a long time before Arthur forgot Kay's howl of rage at the sight of his father's body.

Amatan arrows rained down on them from the dark walls during their first two attempts to remove the corpses. The knights brought the tall tower shields after that, but only insults came at them the third time. Old Bram Archer loosed an arrow from his longbow, bringing down a single Amatan soldier and silencing the rest. None of them bothered to collect their fallen comrade, giving him to the crows instead and leaving the knights to gather their fallen brothers up in peace and prepare them for the proper funeral rites. The soldiers took their time to grieve, and then prepared for war, eager for the chance at vengeance. Their King was left to ponder the list of the dead and the families he would have to inform.

"Arthur?" He looked up. Merlin stood beside him, a plate of food in hand. The scent of bread and chicken reminded him that he hadn't eaten yet. He pushed the list away so Merlin could put the plate down. Hungry as he was, though, Arthur only managed a few bites. He pushed the rest around his plate like a little boy pretending he'd eaten more than he really had.

"It's not your fault, you know. Blackheath's fall, the men. . . You couldn't have seen it coming. Lord Ector didn't, Kay didn't. I can see into the future, and I didn't see it either." Merlin dropped into the chair across from Arthur, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. "Though, admittedly, my ability to see into the future is not particularly useful."

Arthur shook his head. He didn't want to be mollified. The men who hadn't been killed in the initial attack had been tortured before they were executed and left in the snow. Others were still alive, he was sure, and trapped in the dark cells deep within the castle. What horrors were they enduring at the Sarrum's hands? "I could have sent more men than just the two thousand. I could have brought the main force of the army here weeks ago. There are so many things I could have done, and I didn't do any of them," Arthur growled, stabbing at his chicken hard enough to send bits of it flying.

"Would you have neglected the rest of the kingdom for the sake of this one castle? You can't be everywhere, Arthur. You trust your border lords to keep their lands against Camelot's enemies." Merlin handed a napkin across the table. His calm grated against Arthur's nerves. "Ector knew the risks when he took up the mantle of Lord of Blackheath, and your father trusted him enough to foster you here for three years. What happened was not due a lack of strength on Ector's part, or a lack of foresight on yours. Even your father lost land to other kings. Just look at Tintagel."

As much as he wanted to be angry, Merlin's words wormed their way under his skin. His shoulders relaxed, and he stopped stabbing at the chicken. After a few full bites, he felt like he might be able to talk without wanting to throw something. "I'm responsible for them. For the men. For their lives. Mine is the last word. I'm the one who decides where they go and what battles they fight. If I fail, then Camelot fails. . ." he trailed off, unable to give voice to what might happen if Camelot fell.

"Arthur." Merlin's voice was gentle, but insistent. He held his tongue until the King looked up at him. The sorcerer's eyes were serene but underneath, Arthur saw a well of understanding. "We all walked into this with open eyes. No one here assumes that victory will be as simple as knocking on the gates and asking the Sarrum to go home. No one will blame you for a single death as long as you keep acting in your men's best interests. You haven't put swords in the hands of children and sent them off to fight. The men and the knights- they chose this. They follow you because they believe in the same things that you do. They know that every battle has its price, and it's a price they're willing to pay. For you and for Camelot."

Arthur looked away, too overwhelmed by the confidence and- dare he say- love in the sorcerer's eyes. "Sometimes, Merlin, you are a wise man." He set his dinner knife down and picked up the napkin, slowly cleaning his hands to give himself time to think. "But since I'm not putting a sword in your hands, why are you here?"

"What I'm always here for," a hint of mischief returned to Merlin's voice. "To make sure some halfwit with an axe doesn't take your fool head off."

Arthur chuckled, "I appreciate that." His smile faded. "But if I did put a sword in your hands, what would you do?"

"You mean, if I were free to act, to use my magic in whatever way I saw fit, would I ride into battle with fire and lightning bolts?" Arthur nodded without looking up. Merlin read his expression anyway. "No. I wouldn't. That's not who I am. I'm a healer, not a warrior. I don't even think I can summon lightning bolts, and I don't know what I'd do with them if I could. But that's not the point. I'm too. . . connected to everything around us to have a taste for war. I know others do, but I don't."

"I'm glad for it," Arthur said softly, finally looking up to meet Merlin's gaze again. His eyes were calm as ever. "I don't suppose you've. . . seen anything from inside the castle walls?" Arthur wiggled his fingers to make his point clear.

Merlin's lips twisted in a wry grin. "If you're asking if I've been scrying, then yes. I have been. After you go to sleep at night. But no, I haven't seen anything. It's like there's a wall between me and Blackheath." He shook his head. "I don't know why it's there. It shouldn't be, but there it is." He reached out and plucked the extra bread roll off Arthur's plate.

"I was going to eat that."

"No you weren't," Merlin said, his smile turning impish. He popped a bit of it into his mouth, unrepentant.

"Whatever you say." Arthur rolled his eyes and turned back to his food. "The Amatan envoy is coming this afternoon to try to negotiate terms of peace, though I won't settle for anything less than a full withdrawal from Blackheath. Anyway." He made a sour face and shook his head. "The envoy has made it clear- he won't even talk if, ah, if. . ." he trailed off, unsure how to go on.

"He won't talk if there's a sorcerer in the room. Or within earshot. Or bowshot, for that matter," Merlin shrugged. "I'm not surprised, given the Sarrum's reputation. There was something I was meaning to ask anyway, it being Yule and all."

Arthur glanced up. "Would this have something to do with that temple up the way?"

"It would," Merlin grinned sheepishly, "Yule was dedicated to my gods before your one came along. But you wanted me to let you know if there was some sort of holy thing going on, and I'm here as your servant so you have to give me the time off, besides. If you don't want me to go, then I won't. I mean, I know there's a war going on and all. I can just stay here and pretend to be a bit of furniture. You could just toss your packs at me like you always do, tell the envoy I'm just your cloak rack-"

"Merlin-"

"All you have to do is say 'No', and I'll stay here. I'll hide under a rock or something."

"Merlin. Go." Arthur waved him off before turning back to his reports. "You have the afternoon off to do whatever it is that you do. But make sure you take someone with you. We are at war. And don't stay out too late."

"All right, Gaius," Merlin laughed, "I'll make sure to take a warm hat and keep from letting my toes get too cold. I'll be back to irritate you some more before you even notice I was gone." He gave the King a broad grin as he swirled his cloak around his shoulders and slipped out the door.

Arthur would remember that smile for a long time.

* * *

"You have an awfully inconvenient religion, Merlin," Gwaine huffed as he trudged to a halt on the snowy hillside. Air puffed out of his mouth in pale clouds as he fought to catch his breath in the thin mountain air.

Clad as Gwaine was in chainmail and a heavy winter cloak, the warlock had to admit that the knight did have a disadvantage when it came to climbing hills in knee-deep snow, but he was not about to let it pass without giving him a good ribbing. "Why, because you have to walk through a little snow? You're the one who said you'd crossed half of Angred for a particular vintage of wine."

Gwaine laughed and scooped up a handful of snow to toss at Merlin's head. "There was a particular woman attached to that vintage, mate. And she was worth crossing all Angred for. No offense intended, but if I'm going to travel long distances to see something, she'd best have a smile and pretty eyes. You can keep your gods and temples."

Merlin waved him off, not offended in the least. Not everyone had a head for faith. Especially not for a faith that, for over twenty years, had meant death for those caught practicing it. "So the truth comes out at last. It's not the ale that keeps you going back to the Rising Sun, it's a barmaid." He blocked Gwaine's second snowball with a gesture and started forward again.

"I thought you weren't supposed to do that in public?" The knight gathered up another double-handful of snow, lobbing it at Merlin again, wincing when the sorcerer deflected it, sending the lump of snow flying toward Lucan. Both the younger men breathed quiet sighs of relief when the older knight simply moved to the side to dodge it, stepping between the trees with the ease and silence that only a deer could match.

"There are three of us, Gwaine, and the birds don't care what I do. Arthur's first rule for my practicing magic was that I couldn't do it in public. This," Merlin waved at the hillside, empty of people except for the three of them, "Isn't public."

"Only in private, never in public. Makes it sound dirty."

Merlin had to stop to laugh. "I'll take it. Two years ago, I'd have been burned at the stake for it. Compared to that, this is better. Much better."

"Aye lads, it is better," Lucan finally spoke up, "but time's a-wasting. If you want to get to the temple, pay your respects, and get back to camp before dark, then we'd best get moving."

"Right." Merlin gave Gwaine a sidelong glance, directing a branchful of snow onto the knight's head with a gesture before leaping forward to follow in Lucan's tracks. And, he would have to admit, to protect himself from Gwaine's retribution. He wouldn't dare throw a snowball that might hit Lucan. He wouldn't be able to run far enough or fast enough to hide if he did that.

They continued on in relative silence, though Gwaine could not resist piping up with a few more quips, and Merlin couldn't help but answer them. They fell silent when they reached the old temple.

It was a stark sight. The battered walls were made of the same dark stone as the walls of Blackheath. Wide swaths of it were stained with dark soot and spotted with pale lichen. The northern wall still stood; the glass of its arched windows was long gone, but the disk of the pale sun shone through the clouds, casting wan shadows across the broken stone floor. A young oak tree grew in the center of the old sanctuary- directly on the spot where an altar to the goddess Brigid had been once. "It always circles back, doesn't it?," Merlin whispered, though the others could not hear him. Both Lucan and Gwaine had instinctively held back, perhaps sensing that they were intruding on a sacred space that was not theirs.

Merlin pulled off his gloves and rested his hands on the tree's trunk. He opened his mind to it, and through the tree he could hear the land's song, a low hum filled with thoughts of sleep and growing things, riddled with the quick-step thrum of animals in, on, and above the earth. Faraway, like a song heard on an evening wind, he heard a faint melody. Singing, as though the songs of the long-gone priestesses had sunk into the earth and still echoed in the stone beneath his feet. He smiled. The rhythm of his own heartbeat grew louder in his ears, adding to the temple's quiet song. He stood still and listened, soaking in the sound of the earth as it sang counterpoint to the music of the stars.

A new strain entered the melody, discordant, jangling against his mind like claws screeching against stone. It coalesced into a crow's harsh cry that shattered the peace.

Somewhere, a familiar voice called out to him. _"Merlin!"_

He opened his eyes

Morgana smiled back at him, less than an arm's length away and raising a hand toward his eyes. "Hello, Merlin," she said, her voice sweet as honey wine.

There was a burst of light and pain in his head, and then darkness.

* * *

Amata's envoy was a dour man, plain as porridge with a voice to match, and offering nothing that Arthur was interested in hearing. Thus far, he had insulted the wine (a fine red from Nemeth, and so not an insult to Camelot at all), and proclaimed that Blackheath was, in point of fact, an ancient Amatan holding and thus their occupation of the castle was merely the first step in reclaiming lands that were the Sarrum's by right. Never mind that Camelot had held Blackheath for the better part of three hundred years.

Arthur's fingers twitched on the arm of his chair. He fought to keep from drumming them against it, rolling his eyes, or committing any other petty offense that might derail the negotiations. _'Not that there are any real negotiations happening right now.'_

". . . and so, Your Majesty, it stands to reason that, just as Nemeth has a claim to the lands of Gedref, so Amata has claims on the castle and lands of Blackheath. Claims that cannot be ignored simply because some bit of time has passed since they were stolen from us." How the envoy could speak at length without moving any part of his face above his upper lip was a mystery to Arthur.

"And three hundred years is just a small bit of time? I understand." Arthur nodded, letting his fingers drum against the chair arm twice. "By that rationale, then, we should evacuate the Five Kingdoms altogether and leave the lands to the Picts in the north, and the Druids and Britons in the south- all of whom were here before we were. If three hundred years is such a short bit of time, and if the Amatan claim to Blackheath is so strong, then wouldn't their claims be that much stronger? They have, after all, been here since the beginning of time, or so they would have us believe." Arthur wished Merlin were there, if only to see that he had paid attention to his history lessons.

"To listen to the claims of tree-worshippers and men who live in caves and sacrifice goats to heathen gods would be the height of folly, Majesty," he gave Arthur a thin, oily smile. A direct insult this time, though the one the insult was meant for wasn't there. Arthur let it pass. "We are civilized men, sire. Surely we can find a civilized means of bringing this conflict to an end."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps your King should have thought of that before he left three dozen of my men butchered on the field before the gates. _Civilized_ men would treat even their enemy's dead with the respect due to them."

The envoy licked his lips, "Sire, it was never-"

Percival burst into the tent with a blast of cold air, his eyes stony. He leveled a glare at the envoy before giving Arthur a cursory bow and leaning over to whisper in the King's ear. "Gwaine just returned from the old temple. He says they were attacked by men in Amatan colors and worse. Says he'll only tell the rest of it to you."

Arthur's stomach tightened. "What about Merlin and Lucan?" he murmured back to the knight.

"I don't know."

Arthur drew in a long breath, held it to the count of three, and slowly released it. His glare never left the envoy's face as he spoke. "Leon, Elyan, escort the envoy back to the Amatan line. Make sure he gets there before I find out what has happened. I would hate for anything uncivilized to happen to him. It's customary not to harm ambassadors from other lands." The chair nearly fell over at Arthur's abrupt exit. He ignored the envoy's wide-eyed offence. Percival hurried to keep up. "Where is he, then? Where's Gwaine?"

"The healer's tent. They said he was upright when he came back, but he's been run through the wringer." Percival stumbled on a patch of ice. "No worse than some bar fights he's had. Should be back on his feet soon enough."

"But what about Merlin and Lucan?" Arthur quickened his pace. The icy air bit at his face and hands, but he ignored it, letting it cool his anger. Soon enough, he reached the healers' tent, flipping aside the door and stepping into the relative darkness.

"Arthur. . . " Gwaine began. His voice caught before he could say more. Squinting in the dim light, he found the knight sitting on the edge of a bed. Blaise knelt beside him, a needle and thread in hand and a bloody cloth on his knee. Gwaine started to rise, but the healer pushed him back down with a scowl. A red scrape marred Gwaine's cheek, and darkening bruises mottled his chest.

The attempt at respect tightened the knots in Arthur's gut. Gwaine was only respectful at the worst of times. With the well of guilt in his eyes, the knight's news surely beyond 'worst'. Arthur sat on a bed across from him. "What happened?"

"They knew we were coming." Gwaine winced as Blaise dug into his arm with the needle. "A half a dozen or so men. Most with Amata's colors, the last with different ones. A black raven on a field of red. Arthur, he was-" he broke off and looked away, searching for the right words, "He was Morgana's. And she was there with the lot of them. Appeared out of the air, right in front of Merlin while he was distracted. Took him out in a heartbeat. Then the soldiers were on us. The Amatans were of no account. Just fodder. But Morgana's man must have been like those warriors she set on us last spring, with magic and all. He was so fast. . . Lucan turned on him while I was dealing with the last two Amatans."

"Gwaine," Arthur waited until the knight looked him in the eye again, "Where is Lucan?"

He followed Gwaine's gaze to a bed down the row and the too-still figure under a dark blanket. Arthur's breath went out of him as if he had been punched hard in the gut.

"Lucan. . . " he whispered. Gruff Lucan, the weapons master, spy, and ranger. Arthur's favorite teacher, who had taught him how to swing a sword and draw a bow; who had accepted Merlin without question. Lucan, who had seemed indestructible. Now he was dead. "What happened?" Arthur whispered.

"Morgana's man, an old white-hair, magicked his way past Lucan's defenses, and. . . and ran him through. He didn't fall, though, Lucan didn't. Grabbed White-Hair's arm and plucked a dagger right out of his sheath. Jammed it home in his throat. Then he pulled the dagger out and chucked it at Morgana. A second earlier, and he would have had her, too." Gwaine pressed a hand to his eyes and brushed his hair out of his face. "She was doing something to Merlin. I couldn't see what. She stood up at just the wrong time and caught that dagger with her magic. Flipped it right back at him. Caught Lucan in the chest with it. Then she said some spell and they all vanished- her, White-Hair, the Amatans. . . and Merlin."

Arthur's fingers dug into the blanket beneath him. "Morgana. . . And she's allied with the Sarrum. How can that be? He hates sorcery. Hates it even more than my father did." He looked from Gwaine back to the bed where Lucan lay. A pit seemed to open up in his gut. Morgana was allied with the Sarrum. Morgana took Merlin. The Sarrum had Merlin. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat at the implications of it. "He saw this," Arthur breathed. "Merlin saw something terrible was coming, but he didn't know what it was. This must have been it. And now the rules have changed."

He pushed to his feet and paced away, pausing at the mid-point between Gwaine's bed and Lucan's body. He took a long breath and straightened his shoulders. His grief and fear could come later, while he stared up into the shadows in the deep darkness before the dawn. Right now, his people needed their fearless King.

Merlin's voice whispered out of memory, _'He's trying to make you angry. Don't let him win.'_

 _"He's already made me angry. But I'm not going to let him win."_ Arthur turned back to the other men. "Percival, find Kay, Lancelot, and the others. Gwaine, come when you can, but not before Blaise says you're well enough. Morgana's being here has changed everything. If we are to defeat her and the Sarrum, we need a decisive plan. We can't afford a long siege. Not now." He stalked toward the door, his mind already awhirl with nascent battle plans. He glanced over his shoulder at the knights behind him, "And spread the word to shoot every crow you see. One less spy for Morgana is one more chance we have."

 

* * *

Two frantic hours later the news had spread throughout the camp, and it had not been taken well. The day had taken a dark turn, but Arthur found more reason to take pride in his men, for though Morgana's presence was known, they were not afraid. They wanted vengeance for Lucan's death, and there were more than a few murmurings about Merlin's abduction. The sorcerer, it seemed, had more friends in the army than he knew about. It had brought a faint smile to Arthur's face as they gathered in his tent to discuss their plans.

". . . with the siege tunnels collapsed, Blackheath's weak point- the one we can reach, anyway, is here," Kay pointed at a spot on the map where the lagoon met the eastern wall, "There's a drain for the old sewers. It's been underwater and unused of late, but the water usually recedes a bit in winter. My father and I discussed bricking it up last summer, but once Amata showed up on our doorstep, we left it alone."

"With the enemy knocking on your door, why wouldn't you go ahead with your plans?" Leon voiced the question in everyone's minds.

"Because the drain's hardly big enough for a man to get through, and with it being underwater most of the year, trying to get through would be suicide. The only time it's open is in winter, and until now, no one had ever attacked in winter," Kay said. He marked the spot on the map with a stone chip.

"Blackheath's nearly impenetrable, but even the greatest fortress can be taken with a small force attacking from the inside. We proved that with Camelot not so long ago," Arthur forced as much confidence as he could manage into his voice, locking gazes with each of the knights in turn. "If we defeated an immortal army then, we can defeat a mortal one now." The faint light of hope sparked in their eyes. He took advantage of it, pressing on before that light went out.

"I want three of you to infiltrate the castle through that drain,” Arthur said. “Insinuate yourself into the army and get yourselves into a position to man the gates. In three days, I will meet with the Sarrum. We will negotiate for a cessation of hostilities, and we'll fail. I won't allow him to stay, he will refuse to leave. At dawn on the fourth day, we’ll attack. The critical point is our having someone in the gatehouse to open the south doors. Without that, we'll just be throwing ourselves at the walls for no good reason.”

But whoever chooses to go must understand how dangerous it is. If you're caught, we won't be able to save you. And we've all seen what happens to the Sarrum's enemies." Arthur pushed away the imagining of Merlin's head on a spike above the gates.

"And what about Merlin?" Gwaine asked. The guilt hadn't left his eyes. It probably wouldn’t for a long time.

"If you can find him and free him, then do it. But if the gates don't open on the fourth day, this is all for nothing. Will any of you go?"

"I will," Lancelot spoke up first.

"So will I." Behind the guilt, a cold fire was building in Gwaine.

Arthur regarded him for a long moment. "All the Amatan soldiers who came for you are dead, yes?" Gwaine nodded. "All right. Morgana knows all our faces, so there's no hope there. Just keep away from her. And keep your temper. More lives than one are riding on this. I need one more."

Percival and Elyan moved forward as one, but Percival was the first to speak. "I'll go."

"That's three, then. Kay, you have a day to get them familiarized with the castle's layout. You'll leave at tomorrow at dusk. Leave any trappings of Camelot behind. The fourth day, remember, at dawn. Two can open the gates while the third keeps watch on the door and keeps anyone out. Whatever you have to do to hold the gatehouse that morning, you do it. Understand?" They all nodded. "Then get to it."

They filed out, flush with purpose, save for Leon. Arthur collapsed in his chair, burying his face in his hands. "We're walking on a knife's edge with this one. So much is riding on so little."

"We've faced worse." Leon sat across from him, eyes on the map without really looking at it. "I don't want to doubt Merlin, Sire, but he has been privy to sensitive knowledge about Camelot for a long time. He knows as much about the kingdom's workings as you. What happens if- if they. . ."

"If they break him?" Arthur's voice was rough. "I draw the line here, Leon. The Sarrum will not move south of this valley, and he will not keep Blackheath. Whatever information they manage to drag out of him will do them no good."

Leon nodded. "But what about Merlin? Why take him?"

"Morgana knows us, and she knows how to hurt us." He sank against the chair, his unfocused gaze on a candle's flame. He remembered his last sight of Merlin, and the brilliant smile that had graced the sorcerer's face. "All I had to do was tell him no, he couldn't go to that temple. Tell him that it was too dangerous, that there was too much work to be done. Just one little word and this wouldn't have happened."

"Sire?"

"He's still a servant, despite the fact that he doesn't do much actual serving these days. He had to ask my permission to take a half day off. All he wanted was to observe his own holy day. I should have told him no. We're at war, after all. But he's been denied his faith for so long. I didn't have the heart to. And that's where Morgana hits us. In the heart, when we're least expecting it." Merlin had been so happy to latch on to whatever tiny bits of freedom that Arthur and circumstance allowed, like a starving man being given a crust of bread. "It's possible he's already dead, that she killed him with that first blow. Or else. . . If he were awake and able, he would be able to get away. He escaped Pynell and his dogs. Why not Blackheath?" Arthur closed his mouth to keep the rest of his descending thoughts from spilling out. A quick death was the kindest thing that could happen to Merlin in the Sarrum's clutches. His mind shrank from the other possibilities.

"We'll find him, Arthur." There was an unspoken promise in Leon's words, and he clung to it. "We'll find him, and we'll make them pay for Lucan."

 _'He's trying to make you angry,'_ Merlin's voice whispered again in memory, ' _Don't let him win.'_

 _"He won't win,"_ Arthur made his own unspoken promise. _"He won't win."_

* * *

_"Merlin."_

The singsong voice shimmered against his consciousness, rousing him from the darkness just enough to feel an icy grip around his neck. He shied away from the pain and retreated back to the black, preferring it to the ice and the weird stillness that settled over him like nightfall.

"Wake up, Merlin." Cool fingers traced the line of his cheek and ran through his hair, sending chills racing down his spine and lulling him further into darkness. The fingers went away. "Wake up." The voice turned as hard as the slap that snapped his head to the side, throwing him into wakefulness. He opened his eyes. His swimming vision settled on Morgana's smiling visage less than an arm's length away. "There you are," she smiled sweetly, as though she hadn't just hit him.

"Morgana." He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, wincing when the cold pressed harder with the movement. With his vision still blurred, he could not focus on anything beyond her face, lit as it was by a pale light.

"Well. You still have enough of your mind, then. I wasn't sure what was going to happen when I put this on you. Much of our history was destroyed, you know, when Uther burned the Isle of the Blessed. It could have reduced you to a gibbering idiot, but it seems that's not the case." She reached up, her fingertips brushing over the thing pressing on his throat. Against all that cold, his skin felt fever-hot.

"What-" Merlin gasped for a breath. He could hardly breathe. "What do you want?"

"To offer you a choice. You see, I told the Sarrum I would give you to him once I was through with you. I have questions for you, you understand. There are questions about our past that I want answers to, and you're going to give me those answers." Morgana spoke slowly, as though talking to a dim-witted child.

"What answers?" Merlin tried to roll his shoulders to help his breathing, but his own weight pulled at him, keeping him from moving easily. He looked up, noticing at last that he was not standing- he was hanging. A set of chain-wrapped manacles were locked around his forearms, forcing his wrists to bear his weight. Dark bruises already stained his arms. He rolled his ankles around and found he could support himself- slightly- on tiptoes. It helped him draw in a deeper breath, and some of the fog lifted.

"'What answers?' As if you couldn't figure it out. I want to know why, when my magic first came, when you knew how frightened I was, and how alone I felt, why you did nothing to help me. You knew what I was going through. You could have made it bearable, and you stood by and let me stumble through it alone." She grabbed his chin and forced him to face her. "Then when Morgause came and offered to help me, you condemned me for following in her steps. You poisoned me. I had no idea what was happening, but instead of telling me the truth, you tried to kill me. And for what? For Uther? For Arthur?"

"For Camelot. For the future. Morgause would have destroyed-"

"You have no idea what Morgause would have done, or how I would have ruled. All the knights needed to do was swear allegiance to me. I am their rightful queen." She searched his face, her pale eyes growing calm again. "Why do you follow Arthur? He may not be the spitting image of his father, but he's not much better. True, he hasn't executed you- yet. But he gives you table scraps and calls it freedom. Ignores a law without bothering to end it and calls it justice. Aren't you tired of being used by him? Doesn't it bother you that he only lets you use your magic when it's convenient to him, when you have so much power flowing through your veins?"

She reached up to brush a bead of sweat off his brow and left her hand there, cupping his cheek. He closed his eyes. "What happened to us, Merlin? We used to be friends."

Merlin let his eyes flutter open again and met her lucent gaze. The arrogance of a High Priestess had fled from her expression, leaving behind the confused girl Morgana had once been. "We chose our paths. We went down different roads."

"And you chose him," her voice broke. He pitied her, then, for the loss and confusion in her face. Her fingers shook as she stroked his hair. "I thought I loved you once."

He sighed, struggling not to lean into the touch. "And I you."

Old regret colored her eyes. "It seems we were both wrong." Her hand dropped away.

"You could come with me. We could disappear from here and go wherever we wanted, do whatever we wanted."

"And you think the Goddess would forgive me?" He almost smiled. "No, Morgana, we couldn't disappear from here." Merlin winced as the numbness in his shoulders gave way to a slow ache. He tried to shift his weight. "It's too late for that. I won't leave Arthur anymore than you would leave the Goddess."

Her expression closed. The sullen anger returned to her eyes. "Do you know what they call you out there? Arthur's dog. They call you a pet. A creature that comes when it's called and does what it's told. A lowly beast that accepts the collar its master places around its neck. Is that what you want to be?"

"I don't have a collar around my neck." He fought to draw in a full breath.

Morgana laughed. The sound of it was silvery in the darkness. "Oh, that's where you're wrong, Merlin. You do have a collar. I know I'm the one who put it there, but you're collared all the same. Just like a dog." Her fingers wrapped around the band of coldness at his throat, and she shook it. The movement sent him reeling. He lost his precarious balance. His vision swam again. "The _Deiradh Chroí_ , an artifact of the Old Religion, buried in the depths of the Isle of the Blessed. The priestesses of old used it to tame their strongest enemies. To torture them. Do you know what _Deiradh Chroí_ means?"

Merlin licked his lips. A flicker of fear ignited within him. "The heart's end."

"That's right. The heart's end is the death of hope. The longer you wear it, the more it will twist your hope and turn it to despair. It blocks your magic, turning it into pain that will drive you mad." She dragged a fingernail down his chest and pressed that hand over his heart. "You don't want to believe me, I can tell. You want to pretend you're not afraid, but your heart gives you away. I can feel it, beating away like a frightened rabbit's. You're afraid I'm telling the truth, that I've stolen your magic. So let's put it to the test, shall we?" She pulled a thin blade out of a pouch at her side and pressed the flat of it against his cheek. Its cold burned, duller than the collar, but enough to hurt. "Cold iron. Lethal to the Fae, and painful to those with Earth magic. Like you." Morgana grabbed his hair to keep him from pulling away. The blade's fine edge glinted in the pale light. She dug the tip into the skin below his eye.

Blood spilled down his cheek as she dragged the knife across his face, the cold iron burning beyond the blade's cut. Instinct pulled at his magic to push Morgana away, to stop the pain, and begin to heal. Agony spiked through his head instead, stealing the breath from his lungs and blurring his vision until Morgana was nothing more than a shape in the darkness. It slowly leeched away. He coughed, trying to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

"Now that you've tasted the _Deiradh Chroí's_ effects, I'll offer you a choice, Merlin," she said as she wiped the blade clean and put both blade and cloth back into her pouch. When he caught his breath and focused on her again, she went on "I told the Sarrum I would give you to him. He wants to use you against Arthur. Everyone knows that if you can make a Pendragon angry enough, their sense flies right out the window. You saw his welcoming gift. You know what sorts of tortures those men endured in the Sarrum's care. I'm sure you can figure out what he'll do to you to make Arthur angry. Think of the agony you'll suffer."

She rose to her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, her fingers brushing through his hair again. "But I'll offer you a way out. I never intended to keep my word to the Sarrum. Say you'll come with me, and I'll take this off you. I'll take you away from here, take you somewhere you can be free. Just say the word, and I'll release you. Only magic can put the _Deiradh Chroí_ on, and only magic can take it off again. I'm your only chance to live, Merlin. Arthur can't free you. He can't save you."

Merlin ignored the anxious thrum of his heart and the cold sheen of sweat on his body, summoning the last of his shredded courage. "I would rather die than join you, Morgana."

She pulled away from him. A flare of anger burst in her eyes. "Very well, then. Just remember, Merlin, after Arthur has abandoned you, after they've broken you, and you're begging for death- remember that you chose this. I would have set you free." She turned to leave.

An echo of prophecy sighed through him, a vestige of magic the collar at his neck did not recognize. "Arthur will be victorious. No matter what the Sarrum plans, no matter the forces he has arrayed against Camelot, he will not win." The truth of it shivered out of his bones and into the air between them. Morgana felt it, too.

She stopped mid-stride, her back straightening. She turned to look at him. Her eyes were shadowed, but a faint gleam shone within them. He recognized the glint of prophecy within her. "That may be, but his victory will taste like ashes in his mouth." They regarded each other for a long moment, perhaps thinking on all that could have been- and never would be- between them. Then she spun away, snapped her fingers, and dropped the room into the darkness.

A heavy door squealed open. Merlin heard the murmur of voices from above, and then ponderous footsteps on stairs. He tried to catch his breath and calm his shaking. _'When Arthur has abandoned you,'_ Morgana had said, _'when they've broken you'_. . . Had prophecy guided her voice then, too? He tried to push the thought away, but the collar was already doing its work, taking his hopes and making him doubt them.

A rough hand twisted his shirt around and jerked him up face to face with a gaunt, black-eyed man. He had a torch in one hand, held perilously close to Merlin's face. The warlock flinched away from it. "What do you think? A day? Day and a half? He's a bit thin. I could break him like a reed."

"Day and a half," a thin voice spoke from the darkness, "Maybe two. Sorcerers are different from the usual lot. 'Course, sick as he already looks, it might take less than a day. What'd the witch do to him?"

"Dunno," the gaunt man said, "Something to do with this collar, I guess. Won't come off, anyways. See?" he twisted the collar around Merlin's neck. He gasped as it scraped at raw skin. "Doesn't like that, does he? Well, you're not going to like the rest of your life much now, are you? Pay attention, Pet." The gaunt man grabbed Merlin's jaw, forcing him to look up into his snake's eyes. "We have questions for you, and you know the answers to them. You can make things easier on yourself if you just answer them. If you don't, things'll be harder on you, but you'll answer all the same. You'll break. Everyone breaks. It's just a question of when. So what's it to be, Pet? Easy or hard?

"I won't answer."

"Everyone says that at first," Gaunt said. He gestured to the other man. A heartbeat later, pain blossomed in Merlin's back as a blade sliced through cloth and into skin. He panted, trying to keep from crying out. "It just gets worse from here. One more chance. Easy or hard?"

'Arthur will abandon you,' Morgana's voice mocked out of memory. He shoved it away. "I won't answer."

Gaunt nodded sadly. "That's too bad. You were a pretty one, Pet."

* * *

Later, endlessly later, when his throat was scraped too raw for speech or screams, they stopped. He hung there, panting, as the inquisitors talked. He couldn't hear what they said, but it didn't matter. The respite from their attention was enough. They had been at it for hours, it seemed, with fists and knives and questions. Gaunt asked the questions and broke his bones- three fingers, a rib or two, and probably his nose, as well. The other he had dubbed 'Unseen', for he never saw the man. He only felt the cold bite of his knives- on his back, his sides, his arms. The cuts were deep enough to set his nerves aflame, but shallow enough that he wouldn't bleed out. Not yet, anyway.

"Let him down, then," Gaunt said. A chain rattled, and the force keeping him up vanished. Merlin crumpled to the stone floor. The impact jarred his injuries and pulled a low groan from him. He would have thrown up if there was anything left in his stomach. At least he was spared that. His magic flared up again, and again the collar blocked it. The too familiar pain raced through him, and he curled up against it. Unbidden, his fingers plucked at the collar, as though he could simply tug the iron off himself and be rid of it.

"Enough of that, Pet." Gaunt pulled his manacled hands away and yanked his head up by his hair. Unseen remained so as he looped a chain around Merlin's neck. He heard the clack of a lock closing nearby. "Not that I think you'll be going far, but it's best to be thorough. Don't want you to try to throw yourself off the stairs to escape by dying. It'd be bad for my reputation. I have to admire your nerve, though, Pet." He patted Merlin on the cheek. "You've lasted longer than I thought you would. But tomorrow or the next day, you'll talk. We've been at this a while, see? We can keep you alive for weeks, down here in the dark, all alone. Maybe we'll do that. Turn you into a quivering wreck of a creature, then send you back to the Pendragon that way."

"I'd pay good money to see his face if we did that," Unseen rasped, "Don't think we'll get to, though. His Grace has other plans. And we've got other things to do tonight."

"Right. Good night, then, Pet," Gaunt sounded almost cheerful, "We'll see you bright and early." He stood, his blurred form doubling in the torchlight as Merlin's eyes refused to focus. "Wait, I'd almost forgotten. There is one last thing to do before we go. Get you ready for tomorrow. Hand me that, would you? And get his arms." He knelt next to Merlin, a mallet in hand as the other man pulled his arms straight. He brushed at the sweat on his brow; the gentle touch made all the worse for what the warlock knew was coming. "I'm almost sorry to do this, you know. I hear tell you're a healer, and I know healers need their hands. But it'll just make things easier on all of us in the long run." He nodded to Unseen.

Merlin turned his face away and closed his eyes. His pulse roared in his head. "No, please no," were the words on his lips, though his parched throat could not make the sounds.

The mallet slammed home against his right arm, just below the manacles. A loud snap sounded in the darkness. Merlin recoiled as far as the chains and their hands would allow, a dry scream tearing out of his throat.

"There. That wasn't so bad, then, was it?" Gaunt patted him on the shoulder, then stood and walked away, gesturing for Unseen to follow. "Sleep well, Pet. We'll see you again in the morning."

Merlin barely noticed when they left and took the light with them. He curled up again and cradled his broken arm as best he could while trying to get his breathing under control as the darkness spun around him. In time, he managed it, slowing the desperate gasps until they were something like normal. He stared out into the blackness and the silence, glad for the room's warmth. He was shivering enough without adding a dungeon's chill.

Time slipped away. The fire of his injuries dulled to a steady throb the longer he stayed still, though, chained as he was, there was little else he could do. His mind drifted, a leaf caught in a slow river. Old memories stirred at the edge of unconsciousness. He remembered when, as a child, he had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. His mother had bound it up and given him a potion to dull the pain before singing him to sleep. He heard her singing now, a ghostly voice in the dark.

_"Oh hush thee my dove, oh hush thee my sweet love_   
_Oh hush thee my lapwing, my dear little bird."_

His lips formed the words, though no sound emerged. The memory of the song pushed him toward sleep. His shivering stopped, and his breathing evened out.

_"Oh, fold your wings and seek your nest now_   
_The berries shine on the old rowan tree_   
_The bird is home from the hills and valleys"_

Finally, his body too exhausted to keep going, Merlin slept. His mother's lullaby echoed through his uneasy dreams.

* * *

"Then men are all back, yes?"

"Yes, Sire." Leon slid the marker stone into place, noting the point on the map where the wall's defenses were weakest. "Only a few injuries in the last sortie. The worst was a shield-bearer who caught an arrow in the shoulder. It was deep, but Blaise says he should live."

"Good." Arthur nodded, making a few adjustments to the placement of the other markers- the ones denoting his own troops and where they would go at dawn tomorrow. "And nothing new showing up above the gates?"

"No, Sire," Leon did not have to ask what Arthur meant- no new heads had shown up on spikes over the gates of Blackheath. As far as any of them knew, Lancelot, Gwaine, and Percival were still free, and Merlin still lived. His chances dwindled with every hour- if he was not dead already- but there was still hope.

"Then you all know what you need to do for tomorrow. Assuming our talk with the Sarrum later don't throw everything into disarray, the plan stands as it is. We'll make whatever adjustments we need to before nightfall. After that, be sure your men are rested and in place by first light. Understood? Good. You're dismissed." His commanders, Kay, Leon, and Elyan, along with a few others nodded and departed. Leon, once again, remained behind. He stood near the door, his posture relaxed, but he was ready to leave if Arthur made the slightest gesture about it.

The King said nothing of the kind, though. He stood over the map, hands flat on the table on either side of it, his eyes fixed on the lines and markers without seeing them. His head was bowed as though he were praying. "Am I-" he stopped and shook his head. _'Am I doing the right thing?'_ was the question he wanted to ask; would have asked, had it been Merlin standing there instead of Leon. The sorcerer would have understood Arthur's line of thought, asked him a set of questions to get at the underlying doubts. He would have said something wise, something reassuring.

But Leon wasn't completely naive when it came to his King. "Is this the best option, letting our fate ride on the abilities of three common-born men you've knighted?" A wry grin touched the knight's face. "Yes, I think so. They had lives before they came to Camelot, and each of them survived on their wits. If anyone can find Merlin and get those gates open on time tomorrow, they can. And if you doubted them, Gwaine would do it just to prove you wrong."

"I suppose you're right," Arthur said. He looked up at Leon for a moment before lowering his gaze again. He caught sight of a corner Merlin's book. A few bits of parchment had ended up on it. Arthur cleared them away, catching the reed pen before it could fall to the floor. He realized then what sound had been missing the past few nights- the sound of that pen scratching against parchment. From their first night on the road until the evening before his abduction Merlin's constant writing had gone from an irritant to comforting, a reminder that while there was war and death, there was still the promise of life beyond it. Just like the blue thread Guinevere had sewn into his gloves. "I made her a promise, you know."

"Who?"

"Guinevere. I promised her I'd look after him- after Merlin. 'Keep an eye on him', she said, 'you know he won't take care of himself'. Then he leaves camp for an hour, and this happens. Lucan's dead, Merlin's missing. . . He saw something terrible was going to happen, he'd been. . . sensing things for weeks. I should have known the possibility existed, that the Sarrum might have some trick up his sleeve. How could he have taken Blackheath in a blizzard otherwise? Now they're paying for my shortsightedness. Lucan's already paid with his life, and Merlin. . . God only knows what they're putting him through."

"Sire?" Arthur heard the question in Leon's voice and gestured for the knight to speak his mind. He approached the King, his voice low. "You shouldn't beat yourself up over this, Arthur. Merlin didn't see anything specific- just shadows and vague images, he said. And if he can see into the future and still not know what's going to happen, then how can you? We're all just stumbling along and trying to do our best."

Arthur nodded. His head knew Leon was right, but his heart needed more convincing. He gently took up Merlin's book and pen and set them next to the stack of reports- out of the way, but easy to reach.

"We'll get him back, Arthur. Believe me. We'll get him back."

* * *

He had been, perhaps, twelve years old when he realized he sensed more in the world than the other people in Ealdor. They could not feel the electric dance of an oncoming storm, sense the falling of the year as it settled into winter or its rise as it rushed toward spring. No one else sensed the vibration of life; could close their eyes, settle their minds into the stone and feel the turn of the earth. No one else heard the music of the stars. He had wondered what it was like to live without the world pulsing through him.

Now he knew.

It was hell.

Imprisoned in the darkness with the _Deiradh Chroí_ locked around his neck, Merlin was separated from all that. He could neither heal himself nor seek for anything beyond the border of his own body, and the stone was a dead, silent mass beneath him. All the while, instinct kept searching for a weakness in the collar's magic and never finding one. In return, the _Deiradh Chroí_ left him with dizzying headaches. He knew it hadn't blinded him when the inquisitors returned, torch in hand, to continue their work. They had come back four times, he thought, or five. He wasn't sure. Time had lost its hold on him, and so had numbers. They had brought food and water a time or three, a lukewarm broth that kept him going just enough for them to hurt him again.

But how long had it been since they had last come? He would never know. Long enough for cuts to itch as they began healing, and for him to develop an infection deep in his lungs. Often enough to mangle his broken arm as they pulled him up by his wrists, and to forget how many times they had done it.

He stifled a cough and closed his eyes. The chain around his neck rattled with the slight movement, loud in the silence. They had become dark friends, the silence and the blackness. When they were there, he was alone, and alone was better than the pain that came with the light. Alone, he had only his own wandering thoughts and the waiting to worry about. There was less to fear.

Above, the door screeched on its hinges, echoing as it slammed open. His stomach twisted, and he turned his face toward the floor as though to hide. The sound of his hammering heart nearly drowned out the approaching footsteps.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and shoved him onto his back. "Good morning, Pet," Gaunt leered down at him. "No questions today. Just gathering tokens. Our king meets with your master in a bit, and he needs to make a point." They sat him up, sending his head to spinning so much he hardly felt the tug on his shirt. He didn't miss the knife when it bit into his skin once, thrice, half a dozen times and more. A thousand tiny stings burned as they peeled the blood-crusted fabric away from him.

"Right, then. Sorry about the shirt. You won't be getting a new one, but at least it's warm down here under the kitchens, eh? Your master's other men- the knights we captured before- they're finding the dungeons to be a bit colder. But never mind that." The hands released their grip, and he sank back to the floor. The stone was cool under his now-bare skin. He closed his eyes.

"No, no, no. Wake up, Pet. No sleeping now." Gaunt's hand dropped onto his chest. "I am sorry about the next bit, but we need a token. Proof you're alive, because otherwise your master might try to say we just ripped up your shirt and dipped it in pig's blood or the like. He might not believe you're still down here, and we need something to prove otherwise."

The pressure on Merlin's chest increased as Unseen stretched his arms out again. Dull pain in his twisted arm flared anew when Unseen's hand tightened around his wrist. He felt a thin blade press against a fingertip. There was a wet ripping sound. He choked on a scream. His magic flared anew, only to be caught by the _Deiradh Chroí_. Its magic sent him reeling, falling back into blackness deeper than the cell's long night.

* * *

 

The stage was set, and all the players moving into position. The forthcoming show was just that- a mummer's farce disguised as negotiations between two kings, neither of whom was willing to give ground. Instead, it would give Arthur a chance to take the Sarrum's measure, and vice versa. Camelot's side was in place, the King, his commanders, a score of knights to serve as an honor guard, a standard-bearer, and enough shield men and archers to defend Arthur should the enemy prove dishonorable. Amata's count was virtually the same, save for the addition of a dark-haired boy of about twelve- the Sarrum's squire by the look of it. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle mounted by a little decorative box. Arthur ignored it as best he could. Whatever gifts the Sarrum might have to give, silk and gold were not among them.

They met on the roadway leading up to Blackheath's gates, the ice and pebbles crunching underfoot as the men came to a halt. Arthur, Leon, Kay, and the standard-bearer stepped forward. The Sarrum and his handful did the same. They halted a few feet from each other, each King sizing the other up in silence- the black-hearted, aging Sarrum was expressionless, his eyes cold and snake-like. Arthur had the advantage of youth and height, but lacked the other man's sinister aura. "That's for the best," Arthur mused, "I'd rather be loved than feared."

"So," the Sarrum looked him up and down, an eyebrow raised in disdain, "You are Arthur Pendragon. I see very little of your father in you. If he were the one standing before me, I might be inclined to give ground. As it is, I fail to see why I should consider the words of an untested boy-king who can't even be bothered to uphold his father's legacy."

Merlin's sage advice rattled through Arthur's head again, urging him not to rise to the Sarrum's bait. "You're right," he said calmly, "I am not my father. And while I choose not to uphold an unjust law, be assured that his legacy of a strong, united Camelot is in no danger of falling by the wayside. You may have taken Blackheath, but you will never conquer another inch of Camelot's soil while I have breath to defend it." A wry smile tugged at the corner of the Sarrum's lips, but he made no reply. The only sound was the icy breeze whipping through the valley.

"While we're speaking of laws we're not bothering to uphold," Arthur said at last, "I hear you've allied yourself with a High Priestess of the Old Religion. Last I had heard, you were as fanatical about ridding your kingdom of sorcery as my father was."

"My alliance with the witch was a means to an end. I will deal with her in my own time. For the moment, then, we are at an impasse. You are here to demand that I leave Blackheath, and I am here to refuse. Each of us has a great army, and each of us has our lands behind us to offer support. While it may look as though we are evenly matched, Pendragon, I assure you that we are not. I am willing to go to much further lengths than you are to achieve my goals, do the sorts of things that you and your fine ideals would find repulsive. You think you will find a way to win, but I assure you that you will not. And yet, I am not completely heartless."

"I have intelligence to the contrary, but carry on," Arthur said.

The Sarrum's eyebrow quirked upward again, perhaps not expecting a moment of cheek from Arthur. "I have twenty-three of your men languishing in my dungeons. Three knights and nineteen army regulars taken in the initial assault on the castle. Plus your pet sorcerer. I am willing to ransom them, should you accept the offer."

Arthur's chin came up, but he refused to show any other bit of the hope that leapt up within. There were survivors, then, from Ector's last stand, and Merlin still lived. "And what is your offer?"

"For the regulars, a sum of two-hundred gold per man, making for a total of 3,800 for them. For the knights, a thousand apiece." The Sarrum was still as stone, but the boy at his side shifted nervously.

Just under seven-thousand gold coins for twenty-two men. To get them out of the Sarrum's hands, it was a bargain. He did not bother to think it over. "Done. You will release them at sundown in the same condition they are in now. But you spoke of twenty-three. I've only heard your demands for twenty-two." Arthur took a long, slow breath to quell the flutter of anxiety in his gut.

"Yes. Your pet sorcerer. Your sister was quite pleased when she showed up in my palace with him, bound and tamed. You would have thought she had captured a dragon, not chained a skinny boy. Yet he had his uses. I have learned quite a bit from him, though the process was," he paused for effect, "a painful one. But he did finally break."

Arthur heard Elyan gasp behind him, but he mastered his own reaction. Outwardly. "If the process was as painful as you say, how am I to know he still lives? How do I know you haven't already put him to death? Sorcery is an offense punishable by execution in Amata, after all." He had to marvel at the calm in his own voice. His fingers itched to draw his sword and take the Sarrum's head, but his tone was cold as the ice at their feet.

The old King gestured for the boy to step forward. "I thought you might ask that, so here are some tokens, freshly culled. Take them, and consider his future."

The boy held his burden out to Arthur, eyes lowered and hands shaking as the young King relieved him of the offering. The cloth wrapping in his hands was strangely damp. Arthur took the little box in one hand and undid the string holding the bundle closed. His jaw clenched at the sight- familiar scraps of blue fabric and brown leather. The remnants of the shirt and coat Merlin had worn that day. Now they were frayed and ripped, soaked through and crusted with blood in various stages of drying, from freshly spilled to desiccated and flaking. It was still heavy with the ferrous stink of blood, sweat, and fear.

His stomach turned as he flipped the box open. A loud buzzing rose in ears. The little box was meant for jewelry; its interior was lined with red velvet that accentuated the arrangement within- five whole fingernails, still slick and shiny with blood and torn skin. Arthur swallowed, but kept his face expressionless. He closed the box and passed it and the cloth bundle back to Kay. He didn't trust the others to not react to it. "You've made your point, then. What are your demands?"

A flicker of amusement passed across the old King's face. "Before I tell you, Pendragon, you should be aware of what will happen to him if you refuse my offer. You may not hold to your own laws, but in Amata, we burn those convicted of sorcery. If you do not accept the ransom, your pet will be consigned to the flames. I will only make the offer once."

"And it is. . . ?" Unease clenched at Arthur's heart as he gestured for his men to remain still and silent.

"Half of Camelot. And before you cry about how unfair it is," the Sarrum said, noticing Arthur's sharp intake of breath, "I know how attached people can be to their pets. I feel this offer is quite generous. After all, I could be demanding the whole of your kingdom. So what is it to be, Pendragon? Shall I give the sorcerer to the flames at dawn, or will you hand over half your kingdom to me, that he might live? The choice is yours."

Arthur weighed his options with a glance. He could attack now, kill the Sarrum under a banner of truce, and violate every oath he had ever sworn as a man of honor. Then they would close the gates and execute every one of his men. He would gain nothing and lose everything. Neither could he hand over half his kingdom for the sake of one man, no matter how dear that life was to him. His hand clenched into a fist. "You know I cannot do that," he said, sealing Merlin's fate.

The Sarrum nodded, "As you will, then. I will have the rest of your men returned to you as sundown, as we agreed. My men will prepare the pyre. It has been a long time since we've had a burning in my lands. I am sure they will enjoy the show. I've heard that sound carries well in this valley. Perhaps you'll hear his screams from the safety of your own tent." He gestured to his men and turned to leave.

"Sarrum!" Arthur called. The wind caught his cloak, blowing it away from his body and revealing the armor beneath. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he made to move to draw it. The Sarrum paused and looked back over his shoulder. "I will destroy you," Arthur promised, "You may shut these gates behind you, but I will tear them down with my own hands, if I have to, to rid Camelot of you. I promise you, you will not win this."

"Brave words from an untested boy." The Sarrum smirked, the first expression Arthur had seen on the man's face. "But I have faced your betters, Pendragon, and I have defeated them." There was a cold glint in the old King's eyes, "And by your reaction, I think I have already defeated you." He turned away and marched back to the gates. His men followed, save for the dark-haired squire who looked back to Arthur, fear reflecting in his eyes. Then he hurried away before the Sarrum could notice his absence.

Arthur stayed where he was, letting the icy wind cool his rage. Eventually it drained away, replaced by a cold determination. When the doors thundered shut behind the Sarrum and his men, Arthur turned and stalked up the hill. The others followed, but knew better than to say anything until they had returned to the relative privacy of the command tent.

Arthur ignored them, stripping off his cloak and gloves and letting them fall where they would. He pressed his hands flat against the table and glared down at the map. He had been searching for options this whole time, but had come up with nothing. Their initial plan rested on Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival getting to the gates and opening them at a pre-arranged time. While he had sent the merlin out every day since their departure in hopes of a message from them, the bird always returned with nothing. Dull clouds covered the sky; they would darken the night even more and keep them from being able to fight, and bringing lamps to light the way would alert the Amatans to their movements.

Not that they could signal Lancelot and the others, anyway. Their initial plan was as sound and settled as such a mad scheme could be. And it would do Merlin no good. Even if they won through to the gates and took the castle back in record time, they would reach the courtyard in time to watch him burn. Arthur's stomach roiled at the thought. "Unless anyone can offer an alternative, our initial plan stands as is. We must be ready to attack at dawn. Be sure your men are rested and ready."

"Yes, Sire," Kay and Leon said as one.

"But what about Merlin?" Elyan asked softly.

"I can't save him. . . " Arthur's gaze settled on the red cover of Merlin's book. He would never finish it now. "I can't fly over the walls to rescue him, and I can't disappear in the wind like Morgana does to look for him. And I cannot abandon my men on the eve of battle. Merlin's best chance is to wait for Lancelot and the others to open those doors tomorrow morning and get through the lines before. . . " His voice broke, and he cleared his throat to cover it.

"I'll go in. That drain must still be open, or Lancelot and the others would have come back. If Kay can explain the layout of the dungeons, I'll go in tonight and look for him."

Arthur looked up at last and met Elyan's gaze. His dark eyes were unafraid. "You would do that for him?"

"I would have gone with them two days ago, but Percival beat me to it. I don't have a company to command like the three of you do. All I'm doing is waiting around for things to happen. Sire. . . Arthur. I would be dead or worse if it weren't for Merlin. Without him, I wouldn't be what I am today. I owe it to him to try." Arthur watched him for a moment, saw the straight shoulders and bright eyes, and the courage and pride within him. A far cry from the ne'er-do-well brother who had caused Guinevere so much pain not so terribly long ago.

"Very well, then. You'll go in at dusk. Kay, show him the layout of the castle like you did for the others. If you find him Elyan, and free him, find some place to hole up until we can get to you." He heard a sharp breath from Leon and glanced over. The knight had opened the box with Merlin's fingernails. "He'll be in bad shape. You should probably speak with Blaise about taking some medical supplies with you."

"Yes, Sire," Elyan said, his face alight with purpose. "Shall we, then?" he asked Kay.

"Aye," Kay said, motioning for Elyan to follow, "We'll talk with Blaise first. He'll need some time, I'm sure, to figure out what to send with you. The dungeons aren't hard to find once you've gotten through the maze that is the old east side of the castle-" Whatever else he had to say was lost as he ushered Elyan out and closed the tent flap behind them.

"Do you think he's really still alive?" Leon ran a finger down a scrap of the tattered cloth that had been Merlin's coat. "The Sarrum's not known for telling the truth."

"I don't know," Arthur sighed, "But he's known more for his cruelty than his lies." He let himself crumple into his chair and rubbed his eyes. "He said they'd broken him, Leon. What if it's true? You've seen what happens to men who have broken under torture. Even if they survive, they're never the same again." Unbidden, his last memory of Merlin surfaced- the bright smile, and the light in his eyes. What would he do if they did get Merlin back, but without that sharp wit and quick intelligence? What if they brought back a shattered wreck of a man? "I should have told him he couldn't go that day."

"Arthur," Leon sat and leaned forward, waiting until the King reluctantly met his gaze,

"Don't second guess yourself. You couldn't have known what would happen that day. None of us did. No matter what has happened to him, we are going to find him. We're going to take him home, and however long it takes, we'll take care of him until he's recovered."

Arthur slowly nodded his head. His Knights had more hope than he did- perhaps because the weight of responsibility fell squarely on his own shoulders, and not on theirs. Still, if they were offering a sliver of hope, he was willing to hold tight to it. For Merlin's sake, if not his own.

* * *

The hands woke him before he noticed the light's return. Clawing and grasping, they set his mangled arm ablaze with pain until he was sure he would either scream or throw up. He swallowed back both reactions, gasping until he merely shivered in their grasp. His chin sank to his chest. The light moved closer, bringing heat with it. He cringed away.

Another hand locked onto his throat below his jaw, forcing his head back and forth, as though looking him over like a horse at market. Or a dog. . ."Look at me, boy," a harsh, new voice rumbled. Merlin blinked against the light, blearily meeting the gaze of the man in front of him. "So there is still some sense in you," the man said after a time, "My men spent so much time on their work, and yet you managed to say nothing. I was beginning to wonder if you were far less of a man than the witch made you out to be. She is waiting for you to break, after all. I'd guess she wants her jewelry back." He took hold of the collar around Merlin's neck, giving it a half turn and sending needles of cold pain through the warlock's body.

"Though if I could, I'd put this on her. She's the more tiresome of the two of you, though I still fail to see what it is about you that drives these Pendragons to distraction. Your master cringed when I said I'd broken you, and yet. . . " A wry smile twisted the man's lips.

Merlin bit back a sob. The thought that Arthur might believe that he, of all people, might betray his King . . . Would only the gods know he had kept faith?

"Regardless. I have no further use for you, sorcerer," the man spat the word out like rotten fruit. The Sarrum, then. It must have been the Sarrum in front of him. "And so I am going to execute you like all the other sorcerers I've found polluting my lands. You'll burn on the morrow- a bit of entertainment for my men before we set out to destroy your king. Have you anything to say?"

 _"So I die by fire, as I'd always feared. . ._ " He didn't know if he feared or welcomed the news, but he had neither broken nor begged for death. At least part of Morgana's prophecy would not come true. The rest of it- that Arthur would be victorious, Merlin knew as surely as he knew his own name. His victory will taste like ashes in his mouth, Morgana had said. Like Merlin's own ashes. A bitter irony. But at least the cold terror of the darkness would be over, and with the hour and means of his own death now so close, there was nothing else to fear.

He summoned what strength he had left and raised his head, his mind as clear as it had been for ages as he looked the Sarrum in the eyes. His voice, unused except for screams, was a dry rasp. "All men die, Sarrum. Even kings."

The old King watched him for a long moment. Then he chuckled. "So it's to be the brave face, then. Better than begging. I'm sure your King would admire your loyalty if he could see you now. Did you know he had the chance to save you? He refused it. You see, I hold twenty-three of Arthur's men in my dungeons. I offered to ransom the lot of you, and while he accepted the terms for the soldiers' and knights' release, when it came to you, sorcerer. . . He refused. He could have freed you from this, and he passed up the chance. Think on that in your final hours." He gestured to the men holding Merlin's arms.

"Sunset approaches. At dawn, you will burn."

He didn't have the strength to hold himself up when the hands released him. The light winked out as the heavy door slammed shut, echoing once. . . twice. . . before dropping the room into bleak silence. He held his composure that long. Then the weight of the darkness and Morgana's words pressed down on him, heavier than he had the strength to resist. Unbidden tears streamed down his face. Arthur will abandon you, she had said. Was it even true? He could think of no reason why Arthur would deny him, and yet truth had shone in the Sarrum's eyes. . . And the _Deiradh Chroí_ had its say, twisting every bright memory of Arthur he tried to conjure and replacing it with every insult, every bit of mockery, every declaration of the evils of magic that Arthur had ever uttered. . .

_The loathing in Arthur's eyes, his hand on his sword when Merlin's magic was revealed. ._

_" . . . I don't want to see you. . . " Arthur said when he banished Merlin from Camelot on pain of death. . ._

_"Thank you for reminding me of the evils of magic. . ."_

He dragged his thoughts from that path before it broke his heart completely, turning to the gods instead. His quiet, steady gods who had never told him what to do or how to do it, making their presence known in the music of the stars and the voice of the rain. Rarely did he pray to them but he did now, curling in on himself against the pain, a quiet litany on his lips, hoping the silent stone beneath him would breathe into steady life again or that the silence would reveal some rumor of hope. Nothing answered. His faint whisperings rolled on and on until at last, Merlin fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Arthur watched the candle burn. Morbid curiosity made him reach toward it and hold his fingers over the little flame, just to see how it felt. He managed to keep it there to a ten-count before instinct snatched his fingers away, the skin gone pink with a faint burn.

Lucky that he could pull his hand away. Merlin would not be so fortunate.

He remembered the way other sorcerers had died in the fires in Camelot. How they had screamed . . . Some had died within minutes. Others were not so fortunate. One poor soul had gone to the flames in a rainstorm. The oiled wood had burned, but the wretch was still moving hours later until Lucan put an arrow in his throat. That might have been the incident that sent the old knight into the wilderness, now that he thought about it. But it hardly mattered now. Lucan was dead, and Merlin was likely to follow. He wanted to believe that Elyan or any of the others would find the sorcerer before dawn, but the odds were so slim. . .

Unable to face even the tiny fire before him, Arthur blew the candle out. He grabbed his cloak and stepped outside. He needed space to think, and the darkness in the tent pressed too heavily.

Winter nights were long, and the sun had set long before. The captives were released at sundown, as promised. All were alive, though none had escaped injury. Arthur had spoken to them, the ones who were awake at least, welcoming them back and promising that Amata would answer for what had been done to them. He had promised they would take Blackheath back. They had all believed him, and he with a mad plan that seemed so likely to fail.

He let his feet pick his path, the snow crunching underfoot whenever he broke through the crust of ice covering the shallow drifts. With his hood up, he looked like just another knight in the darkness. So long as he stayed within the boundaries of the camp, no one would challenge his movements. It wasn't long before he found himself in a ring of pine trees. The low branches muffled the camp sounds- the men talking, the preparations for the dawn assault on the castle. For his own part, Arthur should have been resting, but his mind was too full to allow that. Sighing, he rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. His gaze traveled upward, past the treetops and up to the sky where the stars were shining.

A memory stirred- a pleasant one, this time. The night before Merlin's capture, Arthur had been on a similar jaunt with the sorcerer trailing behind, unbidden. He had kept walking, brooding about the battle ahead of them, his eyes fixed on the ground and not noticing that Merlin had stopped until he noticed there was but a single set of footsteps sounding in the night.

"Merlin? What in blazes are you doing?" Arthur had asked as he stomped back over to him. The sorcerer hardly looked at him, his gazed turned upward, and a ridiculous grin on his face. "What are you looking at?"

_"The stars."_

_"They're stars. What of it?"_

His ridiculous grin softened into that wise, 'you'll understand someday, Arthur' smile, _"Even on the darkest of nights, Arthur, the stars still shine."_ He said nothing else, just followed Arthur back to the camp and prepared for the night. The next day, he was gone.

Now there, standing in a similar break of trees, staring up at the same stars, Arthur thought he was beginning to understand. Live or die, in joy or sorrow, the stars did still shine down on all of them.

All the little things Merlin tried to tell him. He was always figuring it out too late

_Even on the darkest of nights..._

Arthur stood still and closed his eyes, letting the peace of the night wash over him and listened. To the quiet wind and the brittle trees creaking, the distant sounds of the camp, and the far off calls of night animals. All of it, so very here and so alive

 _"What does magic feel like?_ " he had asked Merlin once

_"Like wind and rain and sunshine and storms, and all the seasons wound into one breath, and everything vibrating and more alive than ever before. You feel... everything in all its alive-ness. All the world is a part of you, and you are part of it."_

It sounded like gibberish at the time, but now, standing alone in a ring of trees in the middle of winter, staring up at the stars, Arthur Pendragon began to understand.

_. . . The stars still shine._

Here, then, was the source of Merlin's endless, ridiculous hope. Despite whatever petty differences men would kill each other for, all they had to do was look up to see beauty that would outlast them all.

Arthur stood and watched those stars for a long time, neglecting the hours that passed until the first glimmering of false dawn reminded him that brave deeds needed doing. He had a castle to reclaim and a friend to save.

Leon was waiting when he returned to his tent. The older knight didn't question his absence, simply acknowledged that his King was there and ready to lead. "Sire. All the men are in place. Clouds are coming in, but you can still tell that dawn isn't far off. It's time." 

 

* * *

They came for him at dawn. Merlin had been waiting, staring up into the nothing above him, thinking. He had always hated waiting- the fluttering nerves in his stomach, the startled reflex whenever he thought he heard someone at the door. Arthur had always teased him about being jumpy. It had served him well once, but now he was just jumping at himself- the rasp of his own breathing, the rattle of his chains.

He wondered . . . would they have a funeral for him at Camelot? It was still against the law to raise a grave marker for a sorcerer. He had made one for his father; not one that anyone would recognize as such. To most, a tree was a tree in a forest, but Merlin had planted and blessed an oak while Arthur wasn't looking. He had marked the spot in his memory, too, and remembered just where it was. He would like to be buried next to his father, but that wouldn't happen. There would be no body to bury. Just a collection of oily ashes. He wondered if Arthur would tell his mother what had happened to him. Would he tell her the truth? Or would he tell her something else, something that didn't involve Merlin dying by agonizing inches?

The clang of the door was an expected surprise. He shivered. The footsteps approached and hands grabbed his arms. "Right, then, Pet," Gaunt's voice was hot against his ear, "Time to go." They hauled him to his feet, though he only had the strength to keep his balance, not put one foot in front of the other. They did that for him, dragging him up the stairs and through the castle hallways. It was so, so bright. After the endless hours of night, even these darkened passages were too bright. What would it be like outside? He let his chin fall to his chest, content to let them do the work. He was too far gone to care what they did, where they took him, or anything else. Even the pain was distant. Their voices, when they spoke, were as echoes rising from a deep well.

Cold air hit him like mule's kick to the chest, sending deeper shivers through him and setting his injuries aflame again, dull little fires that left him gasping as they drove him to his knees. His breath was loud in his own ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. The hands yanked him upright again; one grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. "Do you see that, Pet? The end of your road there?" He saw it. A tall pillar of wood circled by piles and piles of branches, themselves ringed with burning torches. Oak and elder wood, he somehow knew. "Burning elder wood invites disaster," his mother had told him once. He almost laughed. Inviting disaster, indeed.

Gaunt was unimpressed by his reaction. He cuffed Merlin upside the head and dragged the warlock up again. The jeering crowd grew louder. He felt something hit him on his back, his head. Harder than snowflakes and softer than stones. Moldering bits of bread, if his eyes weren't lying. Not the first time rotting food had been thrown on him. They had done the same in Camelot, hadn't they, when they put him in the stocks? Those little crimes hadn't really been his fault, though. Except for fighting in the market. With Arthur, and cheating by using magic. In front of a crowd of people- the first time he'd gotten away with magic in Camelot. Lucky his punishment hadn't been worse than a night in the dungeon and time in the stocks. He never would have met Arthur otherwise, and Arthur would have died soon after, and all that he was meant to be would never have happened

. . . But it would now. He had gotten his King to his throne, and that would have to be enough. "I'm sorry I couldn't have served you better, Arthur . . . "

 _'Arthur will abandon you,'_ Morgana's words whispered through his memory again.

_No . . ._

His heart wanted to deny it. Hadn't Arthur turned his back on his father's laws for Merlin's sake? Hadn't he ridden into the heart of faerie-haunted Broceliande for Merlin's sake? But . . . The Sarrum had told him . . . told him that Arthur had refused the ransom. Was that truth, or just another lie to get him to talk? He fervently hoped for the latter. The other was more than his wearied heart could take. He would never find out now, though . . . His legs gave out again. He cried out when his knees cracked against the paving stones.

He knelt there for a time, having slipped out of his captors' hands. Just breathing. A dark, gentle hand closed around his unbroken arm. He lifted his head, found a pair of familiar eyes staring back at him. Eyes full of sorrow. Regret. Guinevere? No. . . Elyan. So. Not abandoned after all. A rescue had been sent. Too late, but sent all the same. Well. That was forgivable. He had done far worse things than simply be late in his own life. He could forgive Arthur for being late. Arthur was easy to forgive.

A rictus of a smile pulled at the bruises on his face. Elyan's brow furrowed, but Merlin just kept smiling. "I never broke," he whispered, "I never broke." The hands dragged him away from Elyan, tight around his arms as though they could hurt him any more. He looked back to find Elyan again, but the knight had vanished into the crowd. Perhaps he had never been there at all. Merlin was willing to believe that he had been. Even a failed rescue attempt lightened his heart. As distant as he felt from his own body, it was almost like he could just float away. . .

The stake against his back was real enough, the wood cold and dead to him. Rope pulled at his throat and waist, lashing him to the stake. Gaunt yanked his manacled hands upward, throwing the links of chain over a hook high above Merlin's head. It should have hurt, but he was too numb to notice the pain.

The crowd went silent, the jeers and laughter dying away in favor of a single voice. He couldn't focus on the voice, but something within told him it wasn't important. His head lolled back against the stake, his gaze rising up and up, over the castle walls and keep, and up to the sky. The cloud-filled sky showing the first, wan gray light of dawn. Snow was in the air; flakes of it brushed his face and caught in his eyelashes, melting and running down his face like tears.

Then, miraculously, the clouds parted. The night sky opened to him- just a small patch, but enough to show him the stars. The bright stars, the beautiful stars. And he heard their music, from far away. Like something out of a dream. Their crystal thrumming. And beyond, playing counterpoint, the hot notes of a dragon's song. He smiled again as the crowd's murmurings rose to a roar. Still. The stars shone for him, singing, reminding him that there was beauty beyond all endings. . .

A fire's small crackle turned to a howl. Its brilliance stole the stars from him. He screamed.

Once . . .

Twice . . .

A voice not his own echoed in his mind.

There was nothing else.

 

* * *

 

 The wind held the promise of snow as it whipped through the valley. Arthur felt its chill through his cloak, but refused to acknowledge it. There were better things than minor discomfort to occupy his thoughts with this morning. Waiting was one of them. Helplessness was another, but he refused to let that enter into his mind. It was one of the Sarrum's tactics, to make him feel powerless, and so he rejected it. Waiting was enough trouble for now

He stood at the head of his army, gaze fixed on the great southern doors of Blackheath. They were nearly invisible in these early hours. The dark wood within the darker stone walls blended into the night, but the sounds within were clear enough. A quiet conversation between two men could be heard quarter of a mile away; a jeering crowd had nothing on that. Arthur could not hear any individual insult, but the effect was clear.

And familiar. They weren't so far removed from such spectacles in Camelot. _'God willing, they'll never happen again._ ' He frowned at that. If God- if any god had heard his prayers- this spectacle, this burning would not be happening. Elyan or the others would have pulled Merlin out of whatever pit the Sarrum had put him in, and they would be waiting in quiet darkness, with only the whistling wind to listen to. Arthur would have preferred that scenario, though moving in secret would have been harder. Better that they be forced to move carefully than to listen to the crowd cheering on an innocent man's execution

His fingers spasmed around his sword hilt. He had made Guinevere a promise before they left Camelot- to keep Merlin safe. He had failed spectacularly. Above all other things, he hated breaking his word. ' _The Sarrum will pay for this,'_ he promised as he stared down the doors, willing them to open. Surely Lancelot and the others had won through to the gatehouse. Everything couldn't go wrong. But the doors didn't open. They didn't even move.

Beyond the gates, the crowd fell silent, leaving one stentorian voice- the Sarrum, no doubt- to ring out through the quiet. The words were muffled, but the cadence was familiar. Uther had made similar speeches before sentencing prisoners to death. Arthur clenched his jaw. He knew what would come next. The cheering would rise again, they would light the fires, and Merlin . . .

 _Would you let your little brother burn?_ Lucan had asked him that the night he had braved Broceliande Forest to find Merlin. He couldn't remember if he had voiced an answer or not. His heart cried _No!_ , but the choice had been taken away from him. Morgana and the Sarrum had seen to that.

Arthur flinched as the shouts of the crowd grew to fever pitch. Was it his imagination that painted the low-hanging clouds over the castle a dull, flickering orange? He was not imagining the hammering of his heart or the nausea rising in his throat. The next sound was real enough . . .

Over the crowd a thin, animal wail rose. A sound no human throat should have made, and yet Arthur knew exactly what- who- it was. It rolled on and on, longer than it should have, longer than there should have been breath in Merlin's lungs. Arthur forced himself into stillness. He was helpless to stop this, but he would bear witness. He would remember. He would let if fuel his vengeance.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Leon turn toward him. He registered the look of horror on the knight's face, but refused to look away from the castle as Merlin's scream died away. Another rose in its place, higher, more anguished than before . . .

 _'Do you still fear the flames?'_ Arthur had asked him once

_Always._

Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. He lied to himself that the wetness on his cheeks was from their melting. He blinked it away, and then squinted.

The doors shuddered, went still, then slowly- too slowly- groaned open on their ancient hinges. Too late to save Merlin, but opening all the same. Lancelot, Gwaine, and Percival still lived, then. A grace note amongst the week's tragedies.

Arthur stared down the first Amatans he saw through the gates. The brightening dawn combined with the fire- he could just now hear its roar- lit the edges of the crowd. The fools were too intent on the spectacle to pay attention to the opening doors and the army waiting beyond them.

A third cry echoed from the pyre then. Different. There were words in it- strange words. A guttural tongue Arthur had never heard, unlike the lilting chants he had heard from Merlin before. The words rolled on, and while he could not understand them, Arthur knew the tones- equal parts of rage and hate, desperation, and the primal instinct to protect oneself. The spell built on itself, rising to a crescendo that would . . . what? Pressed by a need beyond awareness, in pain beyond measure, would could Merlin do?

_Merlin could set the whole of Camelot ablaze . . ._

Arthur's eyes widened. "My god . . . "

Blackheath's courtyard exploded. White flames burst upward, a third again as high as the castle walls, flinging the defenders off the parapets, and setting tower roofs ablaze. A noise like a peal of thunder deafened them all for a moment as it rolled over the army, its echoes reflecting off the distant peaks as a blast of force knocked the first ranks to their knees. A gust of dry heat followed, washing over them like a storm. Arthur felt arms wrap around him. His own men, tugging him downward, lest the fire reach out and consume them along with the Amatans. From the ground, Arthur looked back at the castle, shielding his eyes with a hand against the brilliant flames as they roiled upward, spending their energy on the frigid air and snow, dying out in a cloud of steam that refroze and fell to the ground in a shimmering cloud of ice lit by the wan shafts of sunlight breaking through the clouds.

Silence hung over the valley. Arthur took a breath. The afterimage of fire was still vivid in his eyes. Then the cries of the crowd rose up again, not with the sadistic glee of before, but with the piteous sounds of the injured and dying. Another breath later, he heard Amata's call to battle as the survivors realized that the castle gates stood open, and the army of Camelot waited beyond. A ragged company of black-cloaked men rushed toward the gates, a paltry force against the sea of red before them.

Arthur surged to his feet, sword in hand, hardly hearing the words on his own lips as he rushed forward to meet them. Thousands of voices joined his, sending the call, "For the Love of Camelot!" ringing through the valley like the voice of an angry god of old times. The golden dragon banner of Camelot snapped in the wind as they flowed around it, their swords bright in the pale morning. They washed over the feeble line of defenders, spilling into the courtyard and beyond like a river breaking through a dam, coursing through streets and into towers and sweeping the Amatan stain out of Camelot's lands. On they went, roaring like a hurricane until, at last, the black banner of Amata was struck down from the highest tower, and the golden dragon of Camelot was unfurled, bright, and proud, and victorious in the morning light.

* * *

Four ragged defenders ringed the pathetic figure still bound to the pyre, keeping the straggling Amatans from venting their fury on the one who had caused their downfall. Arthur stalked toward the last fighter, his sword at the ready should the man somehow make it past Elyan's defenses. The blacksmith-turned-knight needed no help, though, and dropped his attacker with a swift cut to the throat. He caught sight of movement and raised his sword to attack again, lowering it when he saw his King standing before him.

"Arthur," he breathed, shoulders heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

"Elyan." Arthur sheathed his sword, eyes flicking from face to face- Percival, Lancelot, and Gwaine. They were blood-spattered and singed, but alive. He looked past them to Merlin, hanging there, still and silent.

"God . . oh, god. . . " His muttered curses turned to gibberish as they moved as one to pull Merlin down. Percival winced at the heat still in the manacles as he unhooked them from the beam Merlin slumped against, and then five pairs of hands gently lowered the limp sorcerer onto the cloak Leon had spread out on the ground. Elyan made quick work of the heat-scored locks around Merlin's wrists, nearly retching as flesh peeled away with the metal. Carefully, as though handling a newborn child, he rested Merlin's arms at his sides. Blood seeped onto the cloak, dark and sluggish against the brilliant red.

"He's not breathing . . ."

Arthur yanked his gloves off and cradled Merlin's head, fingers pressing against the sorcerer's throat in search of a heartbeat that wasn’t there. "Merlin?" he whispered, "No, no. Don't go." A foolish thing to ask of a man they had pulled out of a smoking pyre. He hadn't been fully consumed by the fire, no, but even Arthur's amateur eyes saw how extensive the burns were, tracing up his torso and arms, marbling his already battered body.

Arthur brushed his fingers over the iron collar around Merlin's neck, across the swirling runes to a crack in the burnished finish. He pulled at the metal, careful not to press too hard against Merlin's throat as he pried the ends apart. They came loose with a hiss-snap, and two pieces pulled free. Arthur tossed them to the side, easing the third out from under Merlin's head. This must have been what they used to subdue him, keep him from using his magic. He was too powerful for even it, in the end, apparently. For all the good it had done him.

"I'm sorry," Arthur breathed, barely loud enough to hear himself. "Merlin, I'm sorry. I'm sorry . . . "

Merlin's eyes flared open, the deep blue gone white, the color frosted like windowpanes after the first freeze. A cold wind blew through, and Arthur could have sworn he heard a noise like ghostly screams. Merlin gasped, drawing in a scraping breath. His back arched, feet scrabbling against the ground as his hands twitched at his sides. The ice blue of his eyes melted away, brightening, turning to the eerie molten gold of magic. He released his breath in a cracked, anguished cry that pierced Arthur through, then convulsed, choking.

The golden hue drained out of his eyes and they fluttered shut. He shuddered and went still.

"Merlin?"

They waited, breathless, until Merlin's ruined chest rose and fell, then rose again, each stuttering gasp a testament to the sorcerer's stubborn nature. Arthur stroked his hair, mindful of the bruises and cuts marring the man's face. 'What have you endured these past days?' Arthur could only imagine. He looked up at them, "Take him back to my tent. Have Blaise do . . . whatever he can for him."

They moved to obey, draping another cloak over Merlin to cover his injuries and keep him warm and dry against the falling snow. To protect whatever was left of his dignity. Then five pairs of hands gently lifted the sorcerer's broken figure, carrying him out of the cursed courtyard and up the hill to find whatever healing they could.

Arthur watched them go, suddenly exhausted and numb, as though the battle had carried on for weeks instead of minutes. He wanted . . . wanted . . . He didn't know what he wanted.

Vengeance was an obvious choice, but he didn't even want that. Camelot's victory had been so swift and so complete that revenge felt useless. But he did want the Sarrum to pay. The man had engineered all this, after all. And Morgana. He reached down and picked up the pieces of the collar. The metal was cool and dull in his hands. Innocuous. He would have it melted down and destroyed as soon as possible. Whatever magic it had held, whether its power was broken or not, he wanted it destroyed.

"Sire?" Kay's voice interrupted the flow of his thoughts.

"What is it?" Arthur blinked and rubbed his eyes, pulling his mind back to the now. "Have you found the Sarrum? I want nothing less than his unconditional surrender."

"We found him, Sire. Near the edge of the courtyard." He held out a battered circlet of metal, its surface scorched and distorted. Nearly melted. "He's dead. Probably in the fire. And his commanders with him. We only knew it was him because of the crown."

Arthur nodded, adding the deformed crown to the collection of metal in his hands. "Then find whoever is closest to the throne who's still living, and I'll accept their surrender from him." His weary gaze wandered around the courtyard where Camelot's men were gathering the dead and laying them in neat, covered rows of black. Only a few of Camelot's men had died, it seemed. "How many did we lose?"

"A handful. Twenty, twenty-five of theirs to every one of ours. Most died in the fire . . . " Kay swallowed, his eyes flicking from the pyre to the blackened courtyard walls, the blown-out windows and burnt roofs. "Arthur, what was that? The older men swear it was Dragonfire, but there was no dragon."

"No, no dragon." Just a Dragonlord pushed beyond endurance. "Gaius once told me that Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer who ever lived. It must have been enough to push through whatever this thing did to him." He nodded toward the pieces of the iron collar.

"I had no idea . . . "

"Neither did I." Snow fell again, the pale flakes blending with the ashes the wind sent dancing through the air. He breathed it all in. The snow was cold against his tongue, soothing. The ashes turned to grit between his teeth. "If this was such a great victory, why does it feel like such a defeat?"

"Did you find Morgana?"

"No, Sire. There was no trace of her. She must have fled when the battle turned against them. Or before."

"At this point, it's probably for the best." He ran a hand through his hair, noting where blood had matted it up. Not his own. He hardly had a scratch on him. Water would wash away the dirt and gore. It would take something else to cleanse the rest of the day from him. "The castle is yours, Kay. I doubt the Amatans soiled the living quarters overmuch, since they were living here. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for spring to fix other parts . . ."

Kay nodded, giving Arthur an appraising look. "We'll take care of the castle. You should go. The rest of this," he gestured around the courtyard to where men were working to clear away bodies and debris, "we can handle. When it's all done, and when we find whoever's next in line for the Amatans, we'll bring him to you. We'll report back when we have something to report. You haven't eaten since early yesterday, and you've hardly slept in the last few days. You're a right mess. Go on. Get cleaned up, get some rest. See to your friend."

Arthur looked toward the gates where Merlin and the knights had disappeared. "Thank you, Kay." The knight gave him a weary, crooked smile and clapped him on the shoulder before turning to shout orders to a group of his men. Arthur trudged back up the hill, his boots as heavy as if they had been forged out of solid iron. He hesitated at the door, almost afraid of what might be waiting on the other side. Then he mastered himself and stepped inside.

The knights had stripped out of their armor and into clean tunics and trousers that didn't stink of sweat and smoke. From the crooked bandages they sported, they had tended each other's injuries. Lancelot and Elyan perched in chairs while Percival loomed in a corner. A moment's searching found Gwaine huddled in an out-of-the-way shadow, his eyes distant. "There's no news yet," Lancelot answered Arthur's unasked question. "Leon was called away to deal with the prisoners."

He nodded and tugged at the lacings on his armor. Lancelot stood and helped him peel it off. A basin of water and a towel appeared, and soon enough he was as clean as he was going to get, melting into his chair with a long sigh, his eyes on the curtain separating them from Merlin and the healers working on him. They could not hear anything, just a murmured order now and then. Once, Blaise's assistant- Stilicho, he thought the boy's name was- slipped out of the other room with a bundle of soiled cloths under one arm and a bowl of red-tinged water in his hands. His only answer to Arthur's query was a shrug before hurrying away, returning minutes later with fresh water and supplies.

Time passed. A servant brought food, messengers came and went with the kingdom's business, forcing Arthur to focus on something other than waiting. And his own guilt.

"What happened in there?" he finally asked them.

Elyan spoke first. "I couldn't find him. I searched all through the dungeons. There were hardly any guards, so it wasn't hard. But he wasn't there. I tried other places where I thought he might be. I looked all night, but . . .” his fingers picking at the end of the bandage wrapped around his arm. "When dawn came, they brought him out of a different part of the castle entirely. Dragging him, more like. He looked . . . " Elyan shook his head, his brow furrowed, "I don't think he knew where he was, or what was happening. I hardly recognized him, and then he slipped and fell right in front of me. He looked up at me and . . . "

"And what?"

Elyan met Arthur's gaze, his own expression baffled, and tinged with awe. "He smiled. It was like he knew why I was there, and he knew I'd failed, and forgave me anyway. Then he said, 'I never broke'. Of all the things he could have said . . . He wanted us to know the Sarrum didn't break him." A half-smile touched Elyan's face. He looked away and swiped at his eyes.

"Bring the bastard to me, and I'd happily break him," Gwaine growled from his shadow, the finest thread of control kept his temper in check.

"The Sarrum's dead," Arthur said, "he burned in the fire Merlin brought down on them." He tapped the distorted crown. Elyan gave it a satisfied nod.

"Serves him right. I barely got out. Heard those words and ran for cover. Just in time, I guess. They say it was Dragonfire," Elyan said.

"It was," Arthur said, finality in his voice. He had no desire to pick the subject apart. Merlin could tell them when he was ready. If he was ever ready. If he lived. All they could now was wait.

* * *

 

"What's your name?"

"Gareth, Sire."

"And the Sarrum was your uncle?" Arthur eyed the dark eyed boy across from him. The Sarrum's squire, it turned out, was part of his family and in line for the Amatan throne. Kay had found him hiding in a lonely tower, a good guess on the knight's side. It was where he and Arthur would hide away when they were boys to watch storms roll in, or just to avoid getting in trouble. Just like Gareth had done.

"He was my father's uncle." The boy's voice was flat, exhausted. He looked ready to drop, as though the only thing holding him upright was the back of his chair.

"And you were a hostage to ensure your father's obedience?" Gareth nodded. Arthur wasn't surprised. It was a common enough situation for a nobleman's child- usually a son- to find himself in. For his own part, Arthur had never been a hostage. Uther had fostered him with Ector so he could learn about the border lords and how to defend a keep, not to ensure anyone's good behavior. He tapped a finger on the parchment, lost in thought for a moment. "I see no need to change the situation, then. This time, though, you'll be coming back to Camelot to serve as my squire."

The boy started, his tired eyes widening. "Are you going to kill me?" his voice was small.

Arthur gave him an appraising look. Under the Sarrum's care, he had likely lived under the constant threat of execution. No wonder he looked tired. "Have you committed a murder? No. Have you committed treason?" The boy shook his head again. "Then I have no reason to. Is your father a good man?"

"What makes a good man?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Arthur replied softly. His gaze wandered toward the curtain and the room beyond, where Blaise still worked to save Merlin.' _The best of us in in there, dying.'_

"Elyan, find Gareth a bed and see to it his things are brought down from the castle. He'll be coming back to Camelot with us." The knight responded with a quiet 'Yes, sire,' and ushered the boy out, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Gareth looked back before stepping out into the gloomy afternoon light, a faint spark of -hope, perhaps?- in his eyes. Then he was gone. Arthur slumped in his chair, spinning the reed pen between two fingers. He was growing adept at picking up strays- first Merlin, then Lancelot, Gwaine, and the other common-born knights. Now he had added an ill-used prince from a hostile land to the collection. Perhaps he would make a good man out of Gareth. Equally likely, he would make a resentful one. He rubbed his eyes, wishing he could set aside the duties of kingship for an afternoon, if only just to sleep.

The curtain rustled. A long hand pulled it aside, and Blaise finally appeared. "Sire," his shoulders were hunched, his eyes haunted.

In that instant, Arthur did not know if the dread of the unknown was worse than the answers that waited behind the healer's teeth as he rose to meet him. "Blaise," his voice was steady, "How is he?"

Blaise wet his lips, searching for the right words. "He lives, Sire, but I do not know for how long. Minutes. Hours, perhaps, but he will not live to see the dawn."

Arthur locked his knees. "There's nothing you can do?"

Sadness began to replace the horror in the healer's eyes. "Sire, burns are the worst injuries a man could endure and yet survive. But to this extent?" He shook his head. "His breath is failing, and he has a lung infection besides. His fever is very high- he has already had one convulsive fit, and it did him no favors." Blaise folded his hands together to keep from fidgeting. Arthur remembered then that Merlin had been friendly with the healer. The King and his knights weren't the only ones struggling to accept the possibility- now certainty- of Merlin's death.

"Even without the sickness, the burns themselves would kill him, and If he did, somehow, manage to survive all that . . . Sire, he would be terribly scarred, possibly crippled, and in constant pain. That's no life for anyone." He swallowed and looked away. "There's nothing more I can do. I've done my best to make him comfortable, but you should say your good-byes while you can."

Arthur blinked his graying vision back into focus. "Thank you, Blaise. I know you did everything you could."

Blaise opened his mouth to say something, paused, and nodded instead. "I should see to my other patients now. Stil, come along." He rested a hand on his assistant's shoulder. Whether it was to guide the boy out or for support, Arthur wasn't sure.

He glanced back at the knights. Only Lancelot was watching him. "Go, on, Arthur. We'll wait," he said.

He turned, pulled back the drapery with a trembling hand, and stepped inside. He couldn't find the courage to look at his friend, sinking instead onto the bedside chair and into himself, breathing in the sweet-bitter scent of Blaise's salves, the stink of burnt hair and flesh, and the metallic tang of infection. Merlin's breath rasped through cracked lips and it was a long time before Arthur realized he had matched the rhythm of his own breathing to Merlin's, as though the synchrony itself would keep the sorcerer alive. A bead of sweat rolled along Merlin's cheek. He brushed it away with all the delicacy of lifting a butterfly from a flower.

Uncovered to the waist, Merlin lay swathed in balm-soaked bandages that hid the burned skin and the evidence of his torture. His right arm- now straightened and splinted- was swathed in linen from his shoulder to his fingertips; his left was wrapped from elbow to palm. The gray pallor of his skin made him look like he was half in the grave already, and he was so, so still. Arthur brushed a hand over Merlin's forehead; it seemed the only part of him left uninjured but even there, there was pain. He burned with a killing fever. Arthur took up one of the clean cloths Blaise had left behind and soaked it in cool water. It was likely his imagination, but he convinced himself Merlin's harsh breathing eased somewhat after he bathed his brow. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry." The words seemed meager rolling off his tongue, conveying what he meant, but not how deeply he felt it. The tears on his cheeks spoke enough, though. He couldn't lie to himself this time and pretend it was snow. He brushed them away, then slowly, gingerly, took Merlin's left hand between his own, careful not to jostle his arm. If there was anything of Merlin left in that ridiculous head of his, Arthur wanted him to know he wasn't alone.

"Arthur?" Lancelot's voice was soft as snowflakes. Percival and Gwaine peered around him, waiting.

"He's still here," Arthur said roughly. Still here. In another few minutes, he might be. . . gone. "What am I supposed to do, Lancelot? Just sit here and wait for him to . . . Do I pray? If I pray, what do I pray for? A miracle? Or do I wish for him to die quickly so he suffers less? I don't know what to do. God has always seemed deaf to my prayers."

"He is blind and deaf if this was supposed to be part of some grand plan." Gwaine stalked in and dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. A smoldering anger grew in his eyes as he looked up at Merlin, and equal measures of guilt. "This is why I don't bother with the gods. They don't seem to give a damn about us, after all. Why should we care if they're sitting up there in their heaven, if they let this happen?"

"Gwaine," Lancelot, ever the peacemaker, tried to calm the angry knight, "That isn't helping."

"Find me something that can, then," he snarled before looking away, his eyes glistening in the candlelight.

Lancelot sighed and settled into the spot opposite Arthur, wetting a cloth to drip water across Merlin's chest to take some of the feverish heat away. Percival loomed again, somewhere. Arthur lost track of them all. He did not know how much time passed, or when he began counting the rasping breaths. Elyan entered at the count of two-hundred-thirty, taking his place in the deathwatch. The world shrank to Merlin's face and to the counting of breaths. When the numbers ran out, he would have to accept his death and learn to face the world without the sorcerer's steady wisdom by his side. As much as Arthur wanted an end to Merlin's suffering, he was anxious for the next breath.

He lost count somewhere around five hundred and stubbornly began again. At eighty-six, Merlin's breath caught. Arthur's fingers tightened around his as the sorcerer shuddered, then coughed and drew in another ragged breath. Arthur reached out and rested his hand on Merlin's brow. "I told you not to go earlier," he whispered, "Did you pick today to finally do as you were told? Because you can go if you need to. If it's too much. Do you hear me? You can go."

But Merlin didn't hear him. He kept breathing. Kept struggling. Arthur hung his head, perversely glad for each breath. Much as he wanted Merlin's pain to end and despite his brave words, he wasn't ready to let go. Not quite yet.

"Sire?" A chill breeze announced Leon's presence. More of the kingdom's business, no doubt.

"Whatever it is, it can wait," he growled.

"Sire?" Leon said again. Arthur ignored him. "Arthur." The blond knight was at his side now, a hand on his forearm to catch his attention. "Arthur, look at me. This is for Merlin. Someone's come to try to save him."

That got him to look up. "How?"

There was a spark of hope in Leon's eyes. "With magic." He looked up and back to where a silver-haired man stood in the doorway, flanked by two young women. "When we were searching for Morgana, nearly three years ago now, and I was nearly killed, this is the man who saved me, Arthur. He didn't have to, and no one would have blamed a Druid for not helping a Knight of Camelot, but he did. He says they can help Merlin, and I think we should let them try."

Arthur looked past Leon to focus on the Druid. Tall, stoic. He looked familiar. "Do I know you?"

"My name is Iseldir. We have met before, Arthur Pendragon, and each meeting was the fulcrum of some great event. This is another such meeting." Merlin's breathing stuttered again, drawing the Druid's attention. His even expression melted away. "I would not have him suffer and die if I could prevent it."

"Why? Why would you come here, and bring your people into the middle of Camelot's army? Why would you risk it?"

Isledir's gaze fixed on Merlin's face. "Because he is as precious to us as he is to you." He looked back at Arthur, wrapping an arm around the one of the girls' shoulders- a brown-eyed girl who leaned against him, a look of fear on her face. The other, green-eyed and sharp featured, just looked curious. "We heard him call out in terror and came as quickly as we could."

"And you're sure you can help him? You can heal him?"

Iseldir dragged his eyes away from Merlin and met Arthur's. "I am only certain that we can try. It may be that nothing can save him now. He's far gone . . . "

He looked back at Merlin, oddly conflicted. He wanted the sorcerer to live, but what if the Druid's healing was only a partial one? What if it was just enough to keep his body functioning, without bringing Merlin himself back? There were fates worse than death. "Do what you can. If- if it doesn't work, if he-"

"I will call for you if he makes a turn for the worst," Iseldir said. Arthur heard the promise in the man's voice.

Arthur gently squeezed Merlin's fingers, then released his hand and stood, gesturing for the knights to go. "Give them room to work," he ordered. They reluctantly filed out. Gwaine was the last, giving Iseldir a long look both pleaded and threatened at once. The Druid stared back, not releasing his gaze until the knight was gone. Then it was Arthur's turn to go. He brushed the curtain aside, then stopped and looked back, in case this was the last time he saw Merlin alive.

Iseldir ignored him, stepping away from the girls and sinking to his knees at the bedside. "Emrys . . . " he whispered, resting gentle hands over Merlin's heart and brow, his head dropping in what Arthur assumed was a prayer. He turned away, then, half afraid of what he would see, and half afraid of what might go wrong.

"What happens now?" Elyan asked.

"We wait again," Arthur replied. He sank into his chair long enough to realize he didn't want to be sitting down and stood up again. His raw nerves set him to pacing and he suddenly couldn't bear being in the tent for a moment longer. "I need some air," he blurted before grabbing his cloak and hurrying outside. He heard the knights' footsteps behind him.

Nights were long in deep winter. Most of the soldiers were settled into their tents for the night, the lanterns shining through the heavy cloth now and then, their faint glow like dull jewels in the darkness. Echoes of laughter floated through the air, the sound of men rejoicing after a victory. In the wake of such a lopsided one, their mirth was higher still. It wasn't usually so.

He walked on through the camp, pausing now and then to exchange words with this soldier or that, but in time he found his way to the makeshift stables. Most days, he didn’t feel a particular attachment to his horse. Canrith was a fine creature, spirited and strong, but he was just a horse, after all.

Merlin was the one who spoiled the beast. He spoiled all their horses, really. His own most of all. Altair was stabled next to Canrith, as he normally was, reaching over the rope divider to nip at Canrith's flanks. Arthur had to smile at that. If any other horse did that, the charger would strike back with hooves, teeth, or both. But it was Altair, so he put up with it. There were some in Camelot, Arthur knew, who would draw parallels between the horses and their riders. A faint smile tugged at Arthur's lips at the thought as he scratched Altair's nose. The horse leaned into him, his eyes closing with contentment before he snuffled at Arthur's chest, no doubt looking for treats. Merlin always had treats for him.

He had chosen this horse specifically for Merlin. Well-bred, with fine lines and a smooth gait, he had been perfect for the inexperienced rider his servant had been at the time. And fast. Altair was one of the fastest horses in the royal stables. Fast enough, Arthur had hoped, to carry Merlin away from danger. It had worked before. Perhaps if he, Gwaine, and Lucan had ridden to that temple instead of walking, the past few days would have gone differently.

"You know I don't have anything for you," Arthur told the horse. Altair snorted and butted his head against the King's shoulder. Apparently, a good scratch was in order if no food was forthcoming. Arthur complied, taking comfort from the animals and their simple desires. In time, though, Altair grew bored with him, stepping away from the King to nip at Canrith again. He chuckled and shook his head, calmer than he had been in days as he stepped outside to continue his tour of the camp.

Above, the clouds were thinning. Only light snow had fallen during the day, enough to coat tents in a thin layer of soft white but nothing more. The stars shone through the breaks in the clouds, sparkling sharply in the cold air. He stopped now and then to look up them, and while their beauty did not give him the same rush of hope as the night before, it did serve as a balm to soothe his aching soul.

"Sire?" a breathless messenger slid to a halt a few paces away. "The . . . Druid," the boy looked confused at that, "He, uh, asked me to find you. He said that they're finished, but wouldn't tell me any more than that."

Arthur took a breath to question the boy further, but stopped himself. He could waste time trying to pull answers out of someone who clearly didn't have them, or he could go straight to the source. He pulled out a coin and tossed it over to the boy, "Thank you. Now get yourself off to bed. It's late." He made a hasty bow and retreated. Arthur managed to keep his own pace dignified but fast, making it back to his tent in record time.

No one was there to greet them when Arthur and the knights piled back into the main room. The braziers and candles were lit, keeping the tent warm and softly lit. There were murmurs from beyond the curtain, then a woman's voice lifted in song, sweet as a nightingale's.

_Oh hush thee my dove, oh hush thee my sweet love_   
_Oh hush thee my lapwing, my dear little bird._

A cradle song. To sing Merlin to sleep, then, or ease him into death? Arthur wanted to call out, find out which it was, but something in him was loathe to disrupt the song's dulcet spell.

_Oh, fold your wings and seek your nest now_   
_The berries shine on the old rowan tree_   
_The bird is home from the hills and valleys._

The song trailed to its end, but she hummed the melody, softly, as though rocking a babe to sleep.

Iseldir brushed the curtain aside, looking pale and worn as he regarded Arthur. A light shone in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "He will live."

Arthur nearly collapsed with relief. His cloak dropped to the floor from nerveless fingers. Quiet, giddy laughter sounded behind him as the knights took in the news. "How is he?"

"He sleeps, in a healing trance, and likely will for some time. Days, perhaps. His injuries were extensive and far beyond our abilities to heal in a single night. That would take a power far beyond what the three of us have, but tonight our strength was enough." His next words tempered Arthur's elation. "But he was sorely wounded in body and in mind, and his recovery will take time. He will need your strength in the coming days."

"Whatever he needs, he will have it," Arthur promised. "May I . . ?" He couldn't finish, but Iseldir knew what he asked, drawing the curtain aside and gesturing for him to go in.

The green-eyed girl still hummed her quiet lullaby as Arthur came in, her slender fingers deftly tying off the bandage around Merlin's still-splinted right hand. She checked his brow for fever next, caressing his cheek as softly as she might touch her child's face. Or a lover's. "Niniane," Iseldir said. She looked up at them, her eyes wide in the candlelight. She seemed reluctant to go, but gathered her things anyway.

"You're welcome to spend the night here," Arthur offered, "I'm sure we can find beds for you."

"It's kind of you to offer," Iseldir bowed his head, smiling, "But walking into the middle of Camelot's army was hard enough. Staying longer would be . . . Too much." He held a hand out to the brown-eyed girl, and she nestled against his chest like a lost bird, her weariness plain in every movement. Niniane stood on her own, her eyes shadowed but alert.

Arthur sank into the bedside chair, his eyes on Merlin's face. The sorcerer was still pale, but not gray; still feverish, but not burning. Still injured, but healing. No longer dying. The horrid, rasping breaths had softened into the quiet susurrus of deep sleep. He took Merlin's left hand between his own, mindful of the fresh bandages that covered his forearm, wrist, and palm. Arthur hadn't prayed for a miracle, but he got one anyway. He looked up at Iseldir. The man's stoic demeanor was back in place, but his eyes still shone. "Thank you."

"Anything for his sake," Iseldir said. Then he took the girls' arms, and they disappeared into the night.

 

* * *

  
****

A muffled voice woke him. Arthur sat up and rubbed his eyes, confused about where he was and what he was doing on the floor. Oh. That's right.They had put Merlin in his bed, leaving Arthur to sleep on Merlin's pallet. It gave him a sore neck. Then he chided himself for complaining to himself about it. He had slept in worse places out on the road, fighting mercenaries and bandits and hadn't complained then. And others had suffered far worse.

He got to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went, drawing the curtain back just enough to see who was in the room with Merlin. After the second time Arthur had fallen asleep in his chair and Leon had shooed him off to bed, Lancelot had stayed. It felt like hours had passed since then.

Gwaine was there now, huddled in the chair at Merlin's side, elbows on his knees and hands clasped tightly, as though he were afraid he'd come apart if he let go. "You should've seen us all, mate, sitting around here, blubbering like girls. Then that Druid friend of yours walks in and says he could heal you. It was like the sun came up. You have friends in useful places. And the girls. You should've seen them, too." The knight's back was to him, but Arthur heard a smile break through. "The one was like a little mouse- shy and little, brown-eyed. The other one, though, she'd steal your heart. Dark hair, big green eyes. She sang like a lark, and wasn't afraid of us at all- not like the other girl. I think she's half in love with you already." His laugh stumbled to a halt, and he sniffed, a hand brushing over his face.

"Gwaine?" Arthur said softly. The knight's head whipped around, eyes widening when he spotted the King standing behind him. Arthur looked away, giving him a moment to collect himself and wipe the tears off his face. "How is he?" he asked and settled into the chair across from Gwaine.

"No better. No worse. I think his fever's down some, though." He straightened the blankets over Merlin's chest. They didn't need it. "I keep hearing him scream, and the fire rising up around him. And me, standing there in the gatehouse with an army between us. I couldn't get to him . . . "

"They would have torn you apart if you tried."

"It's still my fault," Gwaine raked a hand through his tangled hair. He'd be pulling it out soon if he kept it up. "I should have moved faster when Morgana appeared, should have protected him better. I should've . . . I could have done more."

"If you want to blame someone, blame me. It's as much my fault as anyone's. All I had to do was tell him he couldn't go to the temple, but I didn't want to disappoint him. I should have said no. I knew he'd been having visions about something terrible happening. I should have known the Amatans might try something with anyone who left the camp, and forbid him to go. He would have been disappointed for a day, and then got on with things. Better for him to be angry at me than this." They watched Merlin sleep for a time.

Shadows lingered under the sorcerer's eyes and the long cut along his cheek still burned an angry red, but the lines of pain were gone. "I think, though, that if he could, he'd try to turn it around and take all the blame on himself. Try to spare us from feeling guilty. Then he'd try to tell us that blame doesn't accomplish anything, and we should forgive ourselves for everything."

Gwaine hung his head. "I don't think I'll ever forgive myself." His hands tightened on themselves. "You know Lucan didn't die right away after Morgana flung his dagger back at him. He bled out, right there in front of me, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do for him. Then he looked up at me, coughing up blood . . . Looked right in my eyes and said, 'Don't let him die in there,' and I promised I wouldn't." The knight turned his head away so Arthur couldn't see his face. "I failed to protect a friend, and I broke my word to a dying man. If I've ever felt worse than I do right now, I don't remember when it was."

Arthur let that hang in the air for a moment, absorbing that insight into Gwaine's mind. The knight didn't often let people know what he was truly thinking; he took it for the gift that it was. "I'm sending him home tomorrow with the other wounded men and the healers. It will take some time to finish things up, prepare our terms for the new Amatan king. I was going to send one of you along with them, to ride ahead as a courier, inform the council of what happened here. And tell Gaius and Guinevere, so they can prepare for . . . for Merlin, and everything he'll need. I had thought to send Lancelot, but-"

"I'll go," Gwaine cut him off. "I failed to protect him. I can at least do this for him." He looked up at Arthur at last. His eyes glistened, but he met his King's gaze unflinchingly.

Arthur nodded. "I want you ready to leave as soon as possible after first light, then. I have some messages for you to take with you- primarily for the council. The wounded will leave as soon as they can, the rest of the army will probably go the day after, though it won't take us long to catch up." The wagons would be slow on the winter roads; Arthur hoped it would not be too jarring a journey for his injured men. "You should get some rest. You've a long week ahead of you."

"And who will stay with him? Someone should be here, in case . . . " Gwaine did not need to spell out what in case meant. Yes, Iseldir had said Merlin would live, but the sorcerer was still as fragile as spun glass. Arthur had seen it before, when a wounded soldier had been recovering, but then took a fever and died.

Arthur settled back into the chair. It wasn't easy to get comfortable, but he managed it and gestured for Gwaine to go. "Don't worry. I'll keep the wolves away."

 

* * *

_"Don't go . . ."_

_He tried. Tried to do as he was told, tried to stay, but hanging on was so hard, like clinging to driftwood in a raging river, and his magic would not answer. His magic was the river, tossing him about, no longer the quiet force that had guided his every breath. Now the raging torrent of it threatened to overwhelm him, drown him . . ._

_He stopped, face to face with a woman- a crone- her eyes pale and cracked, like frost on a windowpane. "Emrys," she said and smiled at him, reaching up to touch his face. He was suddenly afraid._

_"Don't go. . ." The voice had said. He gathered the last of his strength to obey, to back away from the crone and her beckoning smile. He fled from her, from the cold, the dark, and the voices of the dead crying out behind him, fleeing until he slammed into his own body. Burning and freezing, it was, and he screamed with the agony of it until he ran out of air and collapsed. But he could not go. Not yet. He pulled in a breath. Another. Then another . . . Time drifted away from him, and he sank._

_He rose again, later, and wished he hadn't. He still burned, still felt like he was drowning, and every breath, every heartbeat sent pain spiking through the wreckage that had once been a body. He wanted to let go. Would have let go, but for the light._

_A voice whispered to him, "I'm sorry . . . " He wanted to respond, tell the voice everything was all right. It would be a lie, but he wanted to say it anyway. There was a light at his side, and he didn't want to leave it, but his own voice would not answer, his eyes would not open. His magic was a cacophony of jangling music rattling through him, keeping him from thinking, from resting, from answering._

_A cool presence washed over and through him, sweeping the pain away until a sweet voice sang him into a blissful oblivion._

 

* * *

Pain returned first. A dull, throbbing ache coursing through his body. His skin tingled, burned, up his legs and back and along his arms, and the deep itch of healing bone spidered through one arm, wrist, and hand. He took a deep breath, felt the pull of muscle over ribs, and the hot twinge of sickness in his chest. He let himself float again, drifting away until the pull of the world was too much to resist, and he came back to himself.

Scent returned next, a dry and dusty smell, interlaced with the sweetness of herbs and plants. Familiar. He went still, searching for the word that matched the scent, drifting from thought to thought until he touched on the one that seemed to match best. Home. Yes. Home. He was home. Where he had been before was a confused jumble. It took effort to sort through it, so he stopped, settling back to the thought of home and luxuriating in the idea of it, resting against the softness at his back and the gentle warmth all around him.

"I'm home."

Voices spoke at the edge of his awareness. His fuzzy mind focused on them, separating the two speakers, noticing words and then sorting those words into phrases until his head cleared enough to understand what they said- something about someone who was sick, injured, or both. "They're talking about me," he realized as wakefulness cleared more of the cobwebs out of his mind.

In time, he heard them well enough to assign names to the voices- Gaius. Arthur. He turned his head toward them and forced his eyes open, but it was too dark to see clearly. He let his eyes flutter shut and licked his cracked lips, drawing in a breath to call out to them. "Arthur . . . " It was hardly above a whisper. Even he could barely hear it. He tried again, but his voice caught, prompting a bout of coughing that left him gasping for air.

Hands cradled him, holding him upright as a cup was set against his lips, dribbling cool water down his throat. He drank gratefully until they took it away, and then lay quietly against whoever was holding him, listening to the steady heartbeat.

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice was soft, as though afraid he would startle him, "Are you awake?"

Merlin took a deep breath, testing his lungs and throat before answering. They felt well enough. "Yes. I'm 'wake. We're home?"

Arthur chuckled, "Yes, we're home. We got back yesterday. You slept through the whole journey." They eased him back against the pillows. He snuggled into their soft embrace, wincing as the movement pulled at healing skin.

"Sorry," he whispered. He cracked his eyes open. It was still dark.

"Don't apologize for it. You needed the rest," Arthur said, squeezing Merlin's fingers gently before replacing his arm on the coverlet.

"How are you feeling?" He felt Gaius's dry hand on his forehead.

"Awful . . . Hurts," Merlin sighed.

"What hurts?"

"Everything." He coughed again, but stifled it before it got out of hand.

Gaius brushed a hand over his hair. "I'll mix up something to help with that." A chair scraped against the floor, and he heard footsteps retreat further into the room.

Merlin closed his eyes. Sleep pulled at him until Arthur spoke, "Do you remember what happened?"

His brow furrowed. "Morgana. Morgana was there. She wanted me to go with her, said she'd set me free if I did." He raised a hand to rub his aching temples. The movement pulled at the bandages wrapped around his wrist. "I said no. Didn't think she'd do what she said. She hates me too much." He let his hand drop back to his side. The movement sent fire up his arm, making his head spin until a wet cloth was draped across his forehead. He soaked in the coolness, a mumbled 'thank you' on his lips when the spinning stopped.

“She gave me to the Sarrum's men after that, they . . . " _They hurt me_ . . . "They asked me questions. I didn't answer, and they left me in the dark. Came back . . . left again. It's . . . fuzzy after that. I remember . . . a crowd. Laughing, I think. At me? And a fire. There was a fire . . . ?" He sank further into the pillows as he searched his blurry memory.

"You don't have to go on if you don't want to," Arthur said gently. He rested a hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin turned his head toward his King, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "There were stars. I remember there were stars."

He heard the smile in Arthur's voice. "Yes. Yes, there were stars. You should rest now, Merlin. You've talked too much already. I think Gaius will have my head if I ask you anything else."

"You shouldn't have had him talking even this much, Sire. He needs to rest." There was a shuffling and scraping as Gaius settled next to him. The physician laid a hand on his forehead. "Your fever's come down, anyway. I have something to ease the pain and soothe your throat, if you want it."

"Yes." Hands at his back sat him upright. He tried to help them, but he was weak as a newborn kitten and managed only to touch the bottom of the mug with clumsy fingertips. The liquid was cold and tasted of mint and other things he could not place. It sluiced the film off his tongue and helped clear the fog from his head.

"Better?" Gaius asked.

"Yes." He sent a faint smile off in the healer's direction and lay quietly for a time, reveling in the downy pillows propping him up and the soft woolen blankets under his unresponsive hands. The whys of that were becoming clearer; they had broken his arm and fingers in that cell. His right arm and hand were splinted, while tightly wrapped bandages limited the movement of his left. He was probably bandaged in other places, too, but that didn't matter so much to him. "Arthur, why. . . "

"Later, Merlin. Just rest now," Gaius said. Merlin felt him tug at the blankets and scowled, turning his head toward Arthur's voice.

"Arthur?" He waited for his King's reply, doing his best to ignore Gaius's fussing.

"What is it, Merlin? Can't it wait until later, when you're feeling better?"

"No. I want to know." He forced his tired eyes open again. The darkness hadn't lifted yet. "Why . . . Why is it dark? Is it night?" Arthur was slow to respond. The silence stretched between king and physician, the tension palpable between them. An anxious knot began to grow in his stomach. "Gaius? What's wrong?" He reached a hand out and brushed Arthur's arm. Weakly, Merlin plucked at his sleeve until the King caught his hand between both his. They were warm around Merlin's cool fingers.

"Can you see anything?" Arthur asked softly.

He jerked his head toward where he knew the windows were, his eyes searching for something to focus on, something besides the black fog surrounding him. "N-no. There's nothing. Is it night?" he pleaded, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

"No, Merlin," Arthur sighed, his hands tightening around Merlin's fingers, "It's not night. It's morning. A bright morning."

He sank against the pillows, dizzy, as though the world had dropped out from beneath him. "I can't see anything," he whispered, trembling, "It's all dark." He sucked in a lungful of air, fighting the rising nausea. "It's all dark . . ." The world went muffled, as though he had been pushed under water.

" . . Merlin? Merlin! Listen to me, Merlin. It's going to be all right. You're going to be fine, do you understand me?" Arthur was trying to convey confidence, but his voice shook. He rested a hand against Merlin's brow. "Merlin? Can you hear me?"

"I can't see . . ."

"I know." Arthur brushed his hand over Merlin's hair, "But it's going to be all right," he said.

His fingers twitched against Arthur's. "No lies between us. You promised."

"It's going to be all right," Arthur replied forcefully. All trace of his apprehension was gone. Arthur the King spoke now. "Do you believe me?"

"I want to." Merlin's voice was thick with tears. He clenched his jaw, fighting to control his breathing. He was already weak and in a sorry state in front of Arthur. He didn't want to add 'weeping mess' to the list. How could he serve now? How could he be anything but a blind wreck?

"It is possible that this is only temporary, a result of the trauma from your ordeal, Merlin. Your sight may return on its own in the next few days as you recover," Gaius said. His tone was optimistic, but Merlin knew the physician well enough to hear the undercurrent of doubt beneath the hopeful words. He nodded, slightly, acknowledging the false hope without giving in to it. The movement made his head spin. He let his eyes close, his mind drifting toward sleep until Arthur's voice pierced the fog again.

". . . whatever you need, Gaius- whatever _he_ needs, tell me at once, and you'll have it. Anything at all." There was a quiet 'yes, sire' from Gaius as the physician fussed with the blankets, straightening and smoothing them down. The movements were nervous, but comforting all the same. "Are you still awake?" Arthur's voice softened, his grip on Merlin's unbroken hand solid, but gentle.

"Yeah . . ."

"You should rest. Start getting your strength back. I still expect you be at my side when you're on your feet again. The sooner, the better." For a moment, there was real levity in Arthur's tone, but he sobered again, "Do you want me to stay awhile?"

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut as a few hot tears escaped. He nodded, his fingers twitching in Arthur's grasp, trying to return the grip, strength for strength, but he was too weak, and his hands would not follow his commands. "Please . . ." he whispered, though what he was asking for, even Merlin didn’t truly know.

Arthur took a breath to answer, but a knock at the door interrupted him. "Sire?" Leon asked from far away, "A messenger has arrived from the south. He says he has urgent news, but he refuses to speak to anyone but you."

Arthur swore under his breath, "How important is it?"

"He says it's vital to the security of the realm," was all Leon would- or could- add.

"Of all the times he could have chosen . . ." Arthur muttered, and then sighed, "Merlin, I have to go. I'm sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I understand," Merlin slurred, "Camelot needs her king."

"That she does," he sighed, ruffling Merlin's hair. "Rest now. Gaius is right here. You're not alone, do you hear me?" The sorcerer nodded faintly. "Just remember that. You're home now, and you're safe. They can't hurt you anymore. All right? I'll be back soon." The chair squeaked as Arthur stood, his footsteps retreating from the bed. "Let's make this quick, then," he said to Leon as the door creaked and rattled shut behind them.

It sounded so final. Without his King's steady presence by his side, the darkness pressed around him even more, a thick, clinging thing that drove the last of his courage from his heart. He shivered, his breath coming faster as he tried to hold back sobs. "Gaius?" his voice sounded so small in his ears. He reached a hand toward the healer, not knowing if it was the right direction.

The physician's gnarled hand wrapped around his. A weight shifted the bed as Gaius settled next to him and wrapped his arms around Merlin, drawing the younger man toward him the way any father would to comfort his child who had just woken from a bad dream. Except this was no dream. Merlin had woken from quiet oblivion into pain and darkness, and neither was likely to end soon.

"Oh, my boy," Gaius said, rubbing slow circles on Merlin's back while the sorcerer fought to control his tears. He lost that battle, his gasping breaths turning to heartbroken, inconsolable sobbing. Gaius held him all the while, gently rocking him until finally, his meager energy spent, Merlin drifted back to sleep. Even then, the old healer held on to him, giving his damaged boy the comfort in sleep that the waking world refused to grant him.

 

* * *

_'Lord Pynell, with the aid of the eastern Marcher lords, took Tintagel two days after Yule. Among the prisoners were six sorcerers who were put to torture, and executed when they gave no answers.' Arthur read and re-read that part of the messenger's letter, trying to fathom their consequences. He handed it off to Leon so both he and Drusilla could see it._

"Offhand, I'd say we're going to have fewer border disputes come spring," Leon said, a new spark in his eyes as he gave the letter over to Drusilla. "If we can re-take two major keeps in the middle of winter, Sire, kings like Caerleon and Odin won't have to guess at our strength. They won't spend the summer testing our borders for weakness. They'll already know you have the will to back your threats with force, and the strength to do so."

"Caerleon and Odin and the other kings, yes. We'll have no issues with them. But those six sorcerers will come back to haunt us." Arthur put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"What do you mean?" Drusilla raised an eyebrow, "I know this past year has changed you, but I didn't think you'd come to believe in ghosts."

"It's not about ghosts or the other kings," Arthur snapped. He pushed up from his chair and stalked toward the window, his arms folded. "We don't know where Morgana is. She's still betrothed to Urien's younger son so the whole of Rheged is still open to her. Or the Isle of the Blessed." He shook his head. "As far as the sorcerers Pynell hanged . . ." He turned and locked eyes with Leon. "How many of us swore vengeance when the Sarrum took Merlin? How much worse did it get when he gave us a hand's worth of Merlin's fingernails, and then promised to burn him? Right now, I think Gwaine would take on Amata's army by himself. Lancelot's not much better, though he does a good job hiding it."

"Come to your point, Arthur," Drusilla said flatly. One of the benefits of having helped to raise a royal heir was the ability to speak plainly to him.

"I'm talking about vengeance.' Arthur whirled away from the window and gave each of them a measured look. "We swore to avenge Merlin out of loyalty. Well, loyalty is not limited to one side. Think of what we would do for one man. Now multiply that by six. What will those sorcerer's friends, their families level against us? To say nothing of what Morgana will do. Merlin has been the one standing between her and us and he . . . he's not well," the King said with breathtaking understatement. When he'd left, Merlin was hanging on to his courage by the finest of threads. How much more could he take before he broke completely?

Arthur looked back out the window to where snow was falling again. "They say vengeance begets vengeance. Every time a man is killed on one side of a conflict, his countrymen swear to destroy those who killed him, and on and on, back and forth, until both sides have lost everything and forget why they were fighting in the first place. I don't want that to happen to Camelot," he declared. "Leon, gather the others. I have a task that needs doing, and . . . There are other things to discuss. Assemble in the privy council chamber in one hour."

"Yes, Sire," Leon sketched a bow and strode out of the room.

Drusilla remained, studying Arthur with the same intensity she had when he was twelve and pretending he hadn't done something he was not supposed to. "What is it, Arthur? I know that look." She crossed over to him and rested her hands on his shoulders.

She could always tell when he was fibbing, so he didn't bother. "I keep wondering if there was something I could have done to stop what happened. To Merlin. If there was something I missed before he was taken, if . . . " He shook his head. "The only thing I can see that I might have done differently was to tell him to stay in the camp. Deny him his beliefs. But . . . It felt like he had been denied enough. He just wanted half a day for his own faith. After a lifetime of being denied even that, how could I have said no? And then . . . " He couldn't go on.

"Oh, Arthur." Drusilla gave him a rueful smile and cupped his face with both her hands, "Despite your father's best efforts, you grew up to be a good man after all. There will always be small-minded men who think that a title makes them great, and they will always lord it over those they find inferior. They will always look at a man of peace and think him weak, and they will always be wrong. Because a man of peace has learned to rise above his base self and think about more than his own desires. That is where our greatest strength comes from. You are not perfect, Arthur. You cannot see the future. You couldn't have known what was going to happen that day. All you can do now is stand by Merlin and remind him that he is stronger than the ones who hurt him, even if he has forgotten it."

He took her small hands in his own. "You make it sound so easy," he said. As though facing the terror written on Merlin's face was as simple as writing his own name. "The next few days- weeks- will be anything but that."

"You'll make it through them, Arthur. And you'll pull him through them, too." She patted his hands and smiled up at him. He saw grief in her eyes, and remembered that she had lost Ector, her husband, not so long ago in cursed Blackheath. If she could wake up in the morning and go about her duties, then he had no excuses. "I'll leave you now. You have a lot of thinking to do. Shall I send Guinevere up with her brother?"

Arthur started to say no, and thought better of it. "Yes. She should hear the news as well. Thank you, for thinking of her."

Drusilla looked as though she were about to say something cheeky, then thought better of it. "She's a good woman, Arthur. Better than many noble born girls I've met in my life," she said, her eyes sparkling as she made her respects and departed.

Arthur dropped back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair. His roving gaze landed on the three innocuous pieces of metal he had tossed on the desk the night before after an exhausting conversation with Gaius. Yes, Gwaine had ridden ahead and informed the physician what had happened, but there was a difference between knowing and seeing, and seeing Merlin's broken body had nearly been more than the old man could bear. Handling the collar Arthur had taken off Merlin's neck hadn't helped; after translating the runes, Gaius had fallen silent for a long time before crossing from the table to Merlin's side, taking up the sorcerer's unbroken hand with a whisper of, "My poor boy. My poor, sweet boy."

If Arthur was being honest with himself, he would have done the same, knowing what those spidery runes read, each phrase etched onto one of the three iron pieces:

_'I am the Death of Light_   
_I am the Death of Hope_   
_I am the Heart's End'_

What dark imagination had created such an artifact? And what had it done to Merlin, during the days he had borne it? What was it still doing to him? Until this morning, he had not believed that anything could quench Merlin's bright spirit. Now he wasn't so sure. He shoved the iron pieces away with growl, resolving to have Elyan melt the damned things down the first chance he had. Turn them into nails or some such. Or, better yet, melt them down into a twisted bit of nothing and throw them into a deep river where they would turn to rust and be forgotten.

He spent the rest of the hour staring out the window, trying to figure out what to do next- what to do about Pynell and Tintagel, what they would need to take care of Merlin, where Morgana might be. How could he have kept the past few weeks from playing out as they had? He did not get anywhere with the last, and made no progress on any of the others. He would just have to let events play out and respond to them the best he could. And, for the moment, he would have to hope that Gwaine and Lancelot would not rush out into the wilderness to hunt down Morgana when Arthur told them of Merlin's blindness.

They all looked nervous when he arrived in the privy council chamber, like a row of boys who have done something wrong and now had to face the wrath of their tutor. He might have been amused if his news wasn’t so dire. Guinevere was the only one not fidgeting. She offered him a small smile, and he tried to return it.

"I'm sure you've all heard by now that Lord Pynell captured Tintagel while we were at Blackheath. It seems he took the opportunity to strike while Morgana was away, and I doubt she'll make any move against him while a small army occupies the keep. I would guess she fled to Rheged, and she won't remain idle for long. Because she can go wherever she wants, whenever she wants, we have to remain vigilant." They all nodded, and Arthur went on, "For the next few days, at least, I don't want Merlin left alone. Morgana may try to use this time to take revenge for Tintagel- and the men she lost- while he's too weak to defend himself."

"But, Sire," Elyan said, "How can we defend against Morgana?"

"I don't want Merlin left alone," Arthur said more vehemently. Elyan jumped and backed up a step, startled, but the King was unapologetic. "He woke up this morning, but he's still very weak and sick. And . . . " he hesitated, trying to find the right words before realizing he would never find a good way to say it, so he spat the next words out. "He's blind. Blind and . . . and scared." An outburst of curses greeted the news, though no worse than the ones Arthur had screamed in his own head at the realization. "He's going to need a lot of help, so I don't want him left alone." He refused to give voice to the thought that Merlin, in his despair, might try to hurt himself. Or worse.

"How?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was that collar they put around his neck, maybe it was a result of his own magic breaking free of it at the end. Or the fire. Gaius suggested that it might be a passing thing, but he didn't sound too sure of it. All I know is that he's frightened and in pain." Arthur looked away, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before going on, "In light of that, I want three of you to go to Ealdor, in Rheged, and bring Merlin's mother here. She deserves to know what's happened, and I think it would do him good to have her near. Besides that, I don't want Morgana using Hunith as a pawn in whatever plans she might make. Lancelot, Percival, Elyan, I want you to leave tomorrow morning. Take nothing that would mark you as a citizen of Camelot. Take gear for the mountains and snow. It will likely take you a fortnight to get there and back again, but be prepared for it to take longer."

"Of course," Lancelot said, "Can we see him, before we go?"

"He'll probably be asleep, but I'm sure Gaius won't mind," Arthur said. "Unless any of you have something to add, you're dismissed." They made a solemn line out the door, save for Guinevere, lingering in the shadows, and Gwaine, who looked close to bursting. "What is it, Gwaine?" he asked, keeping his voice even to avoid provoking the knight.

"Don't you trust me? Or do you think I'm not good enough to do something like this? You think that, because I failed once, I'm going to again? Why are any of those three more suited to go to Rheged than I am?" Gwaine bit off each of his words, barely keeping himself from snarling at the King.

Arthur squared his shoulders, taking advantage of his height to stare down the knight. "I trust you, Gwaine, but I don't trust your temper in this regard. Tensions are high enough between Camelot and Rheged, and I can't afford an incident that might spark a war between us. I don't have the time or the energy to spend the next two weeks wondering if you've gotten into some spat with a patrol across the border."

He held Gwaine's gaze for a long moment, and then continued more gently, "You're wound tighter than a crossbow right now, Gwaine. I want Hunith here quickly and safely. Across the border and back as quickly and quietly as possible, and in this instance, Percival, Lancelot, and Elyan are the best choices. Besides. You and Lancelot are closer to Merlin than anyone else. Do you want me to send you both and leave him alone?"

The fight left Gwaine's eyes. His shoulders slumped. "No. I don't. I just. . . " he trailed off and looked away.

"I know," Arthur said. "You should go look in on him. I'm sure he'd want a familiar f- voice nearby when he wakes again."

Gwaine nodded, still downcast, and trudged out the door. Guinevere closed it behind him and turned to look up at Arthur. "You know Merlin's not going to be alone. Why'd you say that?"

"Because Gwaine isn't thinking straight," Arthur sighed. "He and Lucan went with Merlin to the temple that day. He still blames himself for not stopping Morgana or saving Lucan. Probably blames himself for not being able to stop them from sending Merlin to the pyre, though the Amatans would have killed him if he'd tried." He took her hands and kissed the backs of them. "Would you stay with him tonight? With Merlin, I mean. Not Gwaine."

Guinevere smiled at his mis-step. "Of course I will," she said, and then sobered, "How is he, really?"

Arthur closed his eyes, trying to banish the memory of the panic he had seen on Merlin's face. "He's terrified. I don't know what all they did to him, but . . . I don't think I'll ever forget the sound of his screams . . ." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "The Druids saved his life, but he was so badly hurt. They could only heal a part of it. He's still so weak."

Tears welled in Guinevere's eyes but she smiled through them, rolling up to tiptoes to kiss Arthur on the cheek. "Merlin's stronger than people give him credit for, and we'll be there for him every step of the way. He's going to be all right. You'll see."

 

* * *

It was becoming a nightly habit, this waking while it was still dark and being too troubled by bad dreams to sleep again. Arthur stared toward the ceiling for a while, listening to the wind rattle the windows before finally giving up on sleep. He donned yesterday's clothes, shoved his feet into a pair of shoes and headed out into the hallways. Perhaps a long walk through the quiet would set his mind at ease. "Not likely," his contrarian self declared.

He let his mind wander along with his feet, hardly noticing the path he took, nodding to the guards and servants he passed. No one stopped to talk to him- the servants wouldn't dream of it; only the nobility had the gall to do so, begging him for a bit of time to discuss some triviality or try to win his favor. There were days Arthur would rather sit and listen to a stonemason than a highborn lord. His nobles would surely be scandalized by such a declaration. Arthur smirked, "Perhaps this spring, I'll do just that."

The view out a window gave him pause. A layer of fresh snow over Camelot added an extra glow to the already shimmering city, though it did little to dim the brightness of the stars. He watched the sky for a while, letting its beauty wash away the last vestiges of his dreams as he traced the lines of the constellations and picked out the brighter stars. He had no idea what their names were. One of these days, he would have to get Merlin to teach him. . .

 _"No."_ His hands tightened into fists. No, he wouldn't. Couldn't. In the two days since Merlin had first woken up, his vision had shown no signs of returning. Gaius feared the loss was permanent. And Merlin. . .

Merlin was afraid.

It did not take a great stretch of imagination to figure out what Merlin's captors had done to him. The story of those days was written across his body- in his mangled right arm, now straightened and splinted; carved into his chest and back, the layers of closed cuts and scrapes now pink with healing skin. Bruises, faded and nearly gone. The marks where he had clawed at his own throat to try to rid himself of that horrid collar; the burns and unfocused eyes.

“What do you remember?” Arthur had asked him.

_"There were stars. I remember there were stars . . ."_

He had smiled at the memory, a beatific smile full of light and dizzy joy before darkness fell. Arthur didn't know if he should bless or curse Merlin's gods for granting him one last sight of the stars before they let him burn. Before they let him forget that, once, he had been fearless.

The previous night had passed badly. Twice, Merlin had woken, screaming, from nightmares that would not let go of him even when his sightless eyes flared open. Awake, but still caught in a dream.

Guinevere had calmed him the second time, gathering him in her arms and rocking him back to sleep with a wordless lullaby, her voice soft and strong despite the tears coursing down her face. Arthur had fallen asleep in his chair long before she did and woke to find her innocently curled up next to Merlin, deep in sleep with her hand resting over his heart, still maintaining her watch. He hadn't the heart to wake her, and simply watched them sleep as his own thoughts whirled about until morning came and duty called him away.

Arthur shied at blow at the window ledge, scraping his knuckles before turning away to continue his walk, heedless of where he went until he found himself at Gaius's door again. Only a faint light shone under it. Inside it was as quiet as it should have been. He lifted the latch and let himself in, picking his way toward the screened-off bed where Merlin slept. Guinevere was there again, wrapped in blankets and slumped in a chair, her face relaxed in sleep.

Arthur knelt at the bedside, watching the gentle rise and fall of Merlin's chest for a while before turning to Guinevere. The candlelight smoothed away the lines of worry the past few days had etched around her eyes. A curling lock of hair had escaped its ribbon, trailing over the bridge of her nose and marring the soft line of her jaw with uneven shadows. Arthur brushed it away, tucking the silky strand behind her ear. It was enough to wake her.

Guinevere sighed and shifted in the chair. Her dark eyes fluttered open and focused on him. She smiled, the simple expression shining a bit of light into the darkness. "What?" she whispered when he said nothing.

He shrugged and traced her cheek with a finger. "You're beautiful."

"And you're very sweet when you want to be," she whispered, catching his hand before he could withdraw it. "Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk and ended up here. Have you been here all night?"

She nodded, "Gwaine was here. I made him leave a few hours ago. He hadn't eaten all day." She looked back at Merlin, briefly resting a hand on his forehead to check for fever. "I think he sleeps better when he knows someone's near. It reminds him he's not alone." Her brow furrowed. Tears welled up in her eyes as she ran her fingers over his newly cropped hair, smoothing down the bits sticking up at odd angles. She had trimmed the singed ends the day before, and the close cropping added to the gauntness in his face.

Against white bandages and white sheets, he looked like he had been woven out of moonlight and shadows. Guinevere sniffed and reached down to straighten the coverlet to hide it. "What they did to him, Arthur. . . Why. . . ?" She bit her lip, her dark eyes pleading for answers when she looked up at last.

_"Because the Sarrum thought him no better than an animal.”_

_“Because Morgana hates us.”_

_“Because cruel men see a man of peace and call him weak."_

He didn’t give voice to any of those thoughts. He stood instead and pulled Guinevere toward him, holding her close until she mastered herself and swallowed the last of her tears. "He'll be all right. I promise. He's going to be all right.

"How can you promise that?"

"I'm the King. I can make whatever promises I want," he teased, giving her a lopsided grin until she returned it with a watery smile of her own. "I don't know how I know it, but I know it. In time, he's going to be all right."

"I believe you, then," she whispered, nestling against his chest. The lavender scent of her hair tickled his nose. They stood silently for a time, listening to the rasp of Merlin's breathing and the quiet snap of embers in the hearth as the fire burned low. Guinevere swayed, dizzy with sleep.

"You should go back to your chambers and sleep in a real bed. Drusilla's going to miss you sometime."

"Drusilla gave me leave to take as long as I needed to help Merlin. Gaius can't do it alone, and he needs someone here while-" she yawned then, interrupting herself and sabotaging her own cause.

"I'll stay. I doubt I'd sleep any better in my own bed tonight. Not with the wind rattling my shutters the way it is." Arthur pulled the shawl back over her shoulders. It wasn't his first sleepless night since this ordeal began, nor would it be the last. "Come on. Merlin needs you healthy, not so tired you start messing up those horrid smelling concoctions Gaius keeps giving him. Go on." He took her hands and brushed his lips over her fingers. "You'll be the first one I send for if anything happens, all right?"

He watched her resolve slowly crack and crumble. "All right. But if anything- anything- happens. . . Call for me, Arthur. I couldn't bear it if-" She tore her eyes away from his and watched Merlin for a moment. "Just. . . " She looked back up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears again. "Keep your promise."

"I will," he assured her, "No go on. Get some sleep. I'll be here until Gaius wakes up. Maybe longer."

She gave him a tired smile before turning and slipping out of the circle of candlelight into the darkened room. The latch rattled softly behind her. Arthur sighed and straightened the blankets in the chair before dropping into it, staring at the hearth's glowing embers as he tried to come up with a solution to his quandary. He had made a promise to Merlin- and now to Guinevere- that the sorcerer would be all right, that he would make sure everything turned out for the best, but the question remained- how? He could not heal Merlin's damaged eyes, couldn't ensure that the pain he had endured was for some greater cause, nor could he give the sorcerer his strength back or take away his fears. He was a King, yes, but still just a man and no less fallible than the next one.

Time passed, leaving Arthur no closer to an answer than before. A candle guttered. A thin trail of smoke drifted through the air. He watched until it dissipated, leaving only the waxy scent of its smoke behind.

A faint whimper from his charge brought Arthur's thoughts back to the present. Behind closed lids, Merlin's eyes flicked back and forth in a dream- a bad one. His breathing was shallow and fast. Arthur thought he heard words on Merlin's lips and leaned closer to hear. "No. . ." it sounded like he said. "Please, no. . . "

"It's all right, Merlin. You're home. You're safe now," Arthur murmured. He rested a hand on the sorcerer's forehead- no fever this time- then wrapped his fingers around Merlin's unbroken hand; it was cold, despite the blankets. "Everything's all right. We all made it home," he continued the litany, though it hardly seemed to do any good. The sorcerer's breathing turned to labored pants. The dream- nightmare- would not let go so easily.

"Merlin, wake up," Arthur noticed a tremor in his own voice, "it's just a dream."

Merlin's eyes snapped open. He jerked his arm out of Arthur's grip, frantically scrabbling at the blankets, managing only to tangle himself further. His eyes widened, darting about, trying to focus, to see anything but darkness.

Arthur gently took his arm. "Merlin. It's all right. You're home. It was just a dream."

Merlin jerked away again, a panicked cry on his lips. He struggled to free himself from the blankets, flailing about until he reached the edge of the bed and fell to the floor. A pain-filled moan reached Arthur's ears, rising in pitch until a word formed in it. " _Adwæscan!"_ he choked light in the room went out at once, candles and fire alike.

Somewhere past the screen Gaius called out, but Arthur hardly heard him.

In the darkness he climbed across the bed, carefully placing his feet so he would not step on Merlin. Without light, he used his ears and followed the gasps to find his wounded friend. "Merlin," he said as calmly as before, "Listen to me, Merlin. It's Arthur. You're safe."

His hand found the sorcerer's shoulder, slid past the frantically pounding beat in his throat to the back of his neck. He lifted Merlin off the floor, trapping his broken arm between them so he wouldn't hurt it further and wrapped his own arm around Merlin's narrow shoulders. He continued his litany of reassurances, repeating them like a prayer, hoping that his voice could penetrate the fog of panic before his friend's heart gave out.

Hours seemed to pass before Merlin's breathing finally slowed to something like normal. Some of the tension bled out of his body, and he sagged against Arthur. He raised his hand, his fingers finding Arthur's neck, then his face and stopped, butterfly-soft against his skin. The King closed his eyes as his friend traced the planes of his face, brushing over eyelids and across his cheekbone, sketching the line of his jaw from ear to chin before his hand dropped back to his side.

"Arthur. ." Merlin whispered. "You're real?"

Arthur's jaw clenched. "Yes, Merlin. I'm real. We're home again. In Camelot."

"I thought- I smelled smoke. . . I thought there was fire" he gasped, "I thought I was back. . there, at Blackheath. They left me. . . in the dark. It's still so dark." Merlin curled in on himself, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, Arthur thought he might launch into another coughing fit, but the hitch turned to a whimper, then to sobs. Not knowing what else to do, Arthur held him close, silent, shielding him against the horrors that had brought him to this.

 _"I'll be damned if he faces the rest of this alone,_ " Arthur promised himself, willing his own resolve to Merlin, for whatever good it would do. Cradling the sorcerer like a child, he looked up at Gaius, their gazes sharing equal measures of worry in the fresh candlelight.

Merlin's weeping finally quieted. He wilted against Arthur as though asleep again until his eyes fluttered open. "Sorry. . . I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Merlin. Nothing at all. Do you understand me?" he said fiercely. "You've survived something that would have destroyed anyone else. You are not weak. You're stronger than any dozen men combined, but now you need to rest. You're not alone anymore, do you hear me?"

"Yes," Merlin breathed, his voice nearly lost in the fabric of Arthur's tunic. His weight shifted as though he were trying to sit up or stand, but was too weak to do more. In the King's arms, he felt like he was made of glass, as though all they needed to do to break the sorcerer was breath harshly or talk too loudly.

Gaius knelt beside them and rested a hand on Merlin's forehead. "His fever's come back. Let's get you back into bed, Merlin. You need to sleep." He pressed two fingers against Merlin's throat and frowned at what he felt.

"Don't want to sleep," the sorcerer murmured, turning his face away from Gaius and burying it in Arthur's shoulder. It was the strongest protest he could manage.

"Merlin, you can't stay here on the floor. You've a fever again and your heartbeat is too fast for my liking. You need to rest," Gaius said.

"No."

"Why don't you want to sleep?" Arthur asked.

Merlin sucked in a ragged breath. "Don't want to dream." A chill raced through him and turned into shivers. Whatever color was left in his face leeched out, leaving him pale as a corpse. A sheen of sweat glistened on his cheeks.

Arthur gently shifted the sorcerer closer to himself to keep him warm. "Surely there's something you can give him to help, Gaius. He can't keep on like this for long." He felt Merlin's head loll against his shoulder, but weak fingers plucked at his tunic. Apparently, he was going to fight sleep as resolutely as anything else, no matter the cost.

"There is something," Gaius reached out and brushed a drop of sweat from Merlin's cheek, "But using it is like walking on a razor's edge, Arthur." Reluctantly, he rose and disappeared behind the screen. There was the shuffling of books and papers and the rattling of glass bottles, and the healer returned with a small, oddly-shaped vial. He knelt next to Arthur and took Merlin's hand, pressing the bottle against his palm and closing his fingers around it. "Do you know which one this is?"

"Yes," Merlin sighed, "Tears of the poppy." He turned his head toward Gaius, though his glassy gaze ended up on the ceiling. "Will I dream?"

"No, my boy," Gaius took the vial back, his hand closing over Merlin's fingers. "Not tonight."

His trembling subsided. "All right, then."

Gaius squeezed his fingers and pushed himself up. "I'll be back in a moment." He disappeared behind the screen, and with more rusting and clattering, reappeared with a cup of water. Arthur assumed the drug was mixed in with it. "Raise his head up, Arthur," the physician ordered. The King did as he was told so Gaius could tilt the cup to Merlin's lips, draining it sip by sip.

Merlin grimaced when Gaius took the cup away. "That's awful."

"I know," the healer chuckled and ran a hand over Merlin's hair, "It's meant to be that way."

"Figures." He fell silent then. Arthur held him, still, waiting for the dead weight of sleep to fall over his friend. It didn't take long. Between his own exhaustion and the potion's effects, Merlin's head soon lolled against Arthur's shoulder. The short rasps of breath slowed and lengthened. Gaius checked the pulse in his throat again, satisfied at the new result.

"Come on, then," Gaius motioned for Arthur to move Merlin back to the bed. He gathered the bird-boned sorcerer up in his arms and set him back into the nest of blankets, being careful of the splint on his arm and the layers of bandages elsewhere. Despite their fussing, Merlin neither moved nor reacted, sleeping through it all with a look of peace on his face for the first time since the knights had pulled him out of that cold courtyard in Blackheath.

Arthur dropped back into the chair he had vacated earlier. "Now what?" he asked Gaius as the healer settled into his own seat across from him. "If he can't find peace in sleep, how is he ever going to get better? I take it that whatever you gave him- Tears of the Poppy?- it's not something you can keep giving him?"

"No, Arthur, it's not. It's a rare and powerful drug. I gave him the very smallest dose to ease his pain and keep the nightmares at bay this time. The fever and the speed of his heartbeat in addition to everything else had me worried enough." Gaius tugged the edge of a blanket to Merlin's chin and smoothed it over his chest. "But I can't keep giving it to him. If I did that, he would come to need it more than anything else, and that need would destroy him. I won't let him come this far, only to watch him be defeated by a drug meant to help him."

"Then what do we do, Gaius?" He took Merlin's unbroken hand in his own. Tears welled in his eyes but did not spill over. For once he was not ashamed of them. "I'm the King. I'm supposed to know how to help my people, but I don't know how to fix this. He's so lost."

"There was a time not so terribly long ago when you were lost, Arthur, and a clumsy peasant boy helped you find your way." The ghost of a smile spread across the healer's face. "I have no doubt you'll think of something."

Arthur rubbed his temples to ward off a building headache. "I appreciate your confidence. At least one of us has some." He sighed. "You should go back to bed. You look like you're about to fall over. I'll stay with him. I doubt I'll be able to sleep anymore tonight, and one of us should get some rest." Gaius opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it when he saw the stubborn look on Arthur's face.

"Very well, Sire. I'll be right over there if you need anything."

"Thank you." He watched the healer go, then settled back in his chair to wait. When he was sure Gaius had gone back to sleep, he stood and pinched the candles out to keep the smoke at bay. Then he knelt at the bedside and gently took Merlin's hand between his own. In the scant moonlight, the sorcerer looked unearthly, a spirit sent to the mortal realm to teach a foolish King how to be a good man.

"I owe you so much, Merlin, and while I know this doesn't mean as much coming from me as it would from you, I'm going to say it anyway," Arthur said, his voice low and rough, "I'm going to make sure you come out of this again. I don't know how, or by what means, but someday soon, you're going to be all right. I swear it on my life."

 

**Author's Note:**

> The lullaby is called 'Hebridean Lullaby', though there are many songs by that same name.


End file.
